"Oh! sir, I deserve more reproaches than you dream of," replied his nephew. "I cannot stay; I unworthy of any kindness or consideration. Aunt, God bless you." Lady Amabel was sobbing audibly. I stood mute and tearless. Something like "Good-bye" was whispered. I looked up in that face, once so ingenuous, so happy. The laughing eyes were clouded with melancholy; the saucy curled lip pale and compressed; the tall, graceful form trembling with emotion. Not one word could I utter. My fingers closed upon his shaking hand for an instant. I withdrew them. He had pressed them so tightly in his nervous agony, that the indentation of a little ring I wore drew blood. "Poor child! poor child!" said Sir Adrian, very kindly--a sudden thought about me causing him to stop and look fixedly at my sad countenance; "I pity you, too, from my heart. Amabel, this has been a sad business; it has moved me more than I like to own." I looked up--Clarence Fairfax was gone! The vacant appointment of aide-de-camp was offered to Mr Lyle; I applauded his delicacy when he told me he could not accept it under the circumstance of Clarence's disgrace. I rather quailed, though, at that term, "disgrace," applied to "poor Clarence," as Lady Amabel began to designate him as soon as he departed. Another staff appointment fell vacant in the frontier districts. Lyle applied for and obtained it. He was happy, he said, in the prospect of being associated with me hereafter, but did not press his suit. It was not long before I followed him to the upper districts of South Africa. Lady Amabel and I parted with sorrow; she had been ever kind to me; her very errors were those of a tender-hearted, loving woman, and what would it have booted me had she been strong-minded and resolute? Clarence Fairfax's nature was fickle--I will add no more. My journey homeward was a melancholy one; my friends were kind--you know them--Mrs and Miss C--; but I retired within myself, and they had the good taste not to weary me with their sympathy. On the last day of our journey we halted on the banks of a rapid river; night fell, and we were about to close the wagons and seek repose, when we heard voices on the opposite bank. Your little bushman May was one of our drivers--he had been in our service before, and came to tell me that he recognised my father's voice. I ran from my tent to the brink of the river; it was dark, and the rushing of the waters among the stones in the ford prevented my distinguishing any other sound; at last I heard my father nailing us--he was in the middle of the stream--he came nearer--some one accompanied him--two horsemen rode up the bank--my father and--Lyle! ------------------------------------------------------------------------