The whole family were already seated at the table; but Colonel Houston, who never failed in courtesy to the orphan girl, arose, as usual, and handed her to her seat. Her eyes were cast down, her cheeks were deeply flushed. She wore, poor girl, what seemed a look of conscious guilt, but it was the consciousness, not of guilt, but of being thought guilty. She could scarcely lift her heavy lids to meet and return the cold nods of recognition with which old Colonel and Mrs. Compton acknowledged her presence. The fervid devotion that had nerved her heart to meet Mrs. Houston’s single attack was chilled before this table full of cold faces and averted eyes. She could not partake of the meal; she could scarcely sustain herself through the sitting; and at the end she escaped from the table as from a scene of torture. “She is suffering very much; I will go and talk to her,” said the really kind-hearted old Mrs. Compton. “No, mother, do nothing of the sort. It would be altogether useless. You might wear out your lungs to no purpose. She is perfectly contumacious,” said Mrs. Houston. “Nellie, my dear, she is the child of your best friend.” “I know it,” exclaimed the little lady, with the tears of grief and rage rushing to her eyes, “and that is what makes it so difficult to deal with her; for if she were any other than Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter, I would turn her out of the house without more ado.” “My good mother, and my dear wife, listen to me. You are both right, in a measure. I think with you, Nellie, that since Miss Helmstedt persistently declines to explain her strange course, self-respect and dignity should hold us all henceforth silent upon this subject. And with you, Mrs. Compton, I think that regard to the memory of the mother should govern our conduct toward the child until we can resign her into the hands of her father. The trial will be short. We may daily expect his arrival, and in the meantime we must avoid the obnoxious subject, and treat the young lady with the courtesy due solely to Marguerite De Lancie’s daughter.” While this conversation was on the tapis, the door was thrown open, and the Rev. Mr. Wellworth announced. This worthy gentleman’s arrival was, of late, the harbinger of startling news. The family had grown to expect it on seeing him. His appearance now corroborated their usual expectations. His manner was hurried, his face flushed, his expression angry. “Good-day, friends! Has your fugitive returned?” “Yes, why?” inquired three or four in a breath, rising from the table.