We cannot help at this part of our narrative shifting the scene for a little moment, just enough to shew our readers the effect produced in another quarter by the conduct of the above-named man of honor. From the sportsmen at Neverden we turn to the rectory of Smatterton and its inhabitants. Dr Greendale was in his study as usual, not kept away by any weariness of the preceding evening. Mrs Greendale felt more acutely the trouble of company departed than of company coming, and Mrs Greendale was not selfish in her sorrows, but communicated them to all about her. Penelope Primrose felt the full weight of her aunt’s troubles; and as the good lady of the rectory had been rather disappointed the preceding evening she was not in one of her best humours. Patiently as possible did Penelope bear with those ill humours, for her mind was buoyed up with hopes of pleasing intelligence from abroad. The hour arrived which usually brought the postman, but no postman arrived. It was possible the clocks at Smatterton were too fast. The hour was gone by, a full hour was past. It was not probable that the Smatterton clocks were an hour too fast. There was a little hope that Mr Darnley might be at Smatterton in the course of the morning; but the morning passed away and Mr Darnley did not come. But a messenger came from the rectory of Neverden with enquiries after Dr and Mrs Greendale. Penelope asked very particularly after the rector of Neverden and Mrs Darnley, and hoped that they arrived safely home, and that they had taken no cold, and--and--just as a matter of curiosity, had they heard from their son lately? The answer was, that a letter from Mr Robert Darnley had arrived the very hour before the messenger set out. Penelope turned pale, and then blushed most intemperately, because she felt how pale she looked; and then she thought--“Now I know he has forgotten me.” Immediately after however she thought again, and then it occurred to her that, as Robert Darnley was remarkable for his great filial affection, it was possible that he might have had no time to write by that conveyance more than one letter. But she still could not help thinking that he might have sent her one small letter: if it had been but short, it might have been a memorial of his thoughts still dwelling upon her. She felt hurt, but would not be angry; and hoped, very earnestly hoped, that she was not cherishing a foolish and fond passion for one who had relinquished all fondness for her. It was very strange and altogether unaccountable. It was so very much unlike the usual frankness and openness of mind for which Robert Darnley was so remarkable. These were painful thoughts, and the more painful because so very perplexing. It is somewhat wearying to exert the mind very diligently and perseveringly, even in solving problems and guessing riddles which are mere abstractions; but when, in addition to the perplexity, there is personal and deep interest and moral feeling, then