“My dear friend,” he cried, “I wish we had explained all to you before. My anxiety about Ernest will not allow me to sleep. I will arouse the gardener to go with me in search of him, and would have done so before, but knowing my brother’s sensitive and delicate feelings, I feared if he was safe he might be displeased.” “I will accompany you,” I replied, “do not awaken Richard.” “No, no, you are not well, Charles. How you shake. Why, you are as pale as ashes. Richard can go, for my father will not let me venture alone.” Still I persisted in following him down stairs, and with cautious footsteps we passed Linda’s door; but our care was useless, it was ajar, and a light burning on the table. Her brother looked in, Linda was not there, but on re-entering the passage we caught a glimpse of her form leaning from a window at the extreme end, and gazing out on the road. She started as we approached, and an exclamation rather of distress than alarm broke from her—“My brother! my Ernest!” “Be calm, dear sister,” said James; “I am going to seek him. He may have gone to the next town, and the night being dark, his friends have detained him until morning.” “Alas! I cannot hope this,” said Linda; “for Ernest would not willingly give pain and anxiety to our father. I fear some evil has befallen him.” And she burst into tears. I could not approach to soothe her anguish, for her words were torture to my heart, as I accused myself of being the cause of all this distress. “Are you going, too, Charles?” she inquired, raising her tearful eyes to mine. Before I could answer, the voice of Mr. Milton called me, and I hastened to his chamber. He was sitting up in bed, and the painful anxiety of the last few hours had visibly affected his usually healthy appearance. His had been a green old age, so beautiful in its gradual decline, but now his features appeared sharp, and his face very pale.