"The thraldom is over," said she, "the chain is broken; but the mark of the fetter has burnt in its brand upon the heart. As spots upon the green hills are seared for ever by the lightning's blast, so is the blight upon my soul. Oh, youth, youth!--in some so verdant and so fair--why has mine been scathed so ruthlessly?" She heard a step approaching, and, hurrying to the window-sill, appeared to be looking out. The step was her father's, and, recognising that, she opened the door. By the light he held, he looked sorrowfully at that young pale face. "My love," he said, "strangers have arrived, who will probably be with us some days; do you think you can summon resolution to come among us?" "My dear father, I will do anything you wish," said the daughter; but, as she spoke, she burst into a passion of tears. The father closed the door, and sat down with his arm round his weeping child. Her youth--she was barely twenty--her sable garb, her beautiful hair bound simply round her head, in token of mourning, instead of falling on her bosom in its natural heavy ringlets--her sobs, emanating from the depths of an aching heart, presented such a picture of desolation as would have moved a stranger. Her father could only take her to his breast, and clasp her there, as though he would say, "Lie here, my stricken one, and be at peace." She understood him, for she loved him, she respected him, and she was anxious, as she said, to do anything he wished. The overburdened heart gained relief after this outburst of sorrow, and, rising, she said-- "Give me half an hour, father, and I will be with you. I am not selfish, as you know." She kissed him, lit the candle on her dressing-table, and began to make such preparations for her appearance as would prevent any remarks on her agitated face and trembling frame, except in so far as might arise from the arrival of the strangers under circumstances of excitement and alarm. Some idea of Mrs Daveney's character in early life may be gathered from a letter written to a friend in England some five or six years after she had settled with her husband at Annerley--so, from certain associations, she had named the residence--which, once but a mere farm, was now a capacious and picturesque dwelling.