“Any thing to hear your voice—to still look upon you,” and she seated herself opposite to him, and fixed her eyes upon him, as if she would drink in every word which fell from his lips, and indelibly fix in her mind every lineament of that face which she was soon no more to see. “Listen to me. There is a possibility that this letter may not be authentic.” She shook her head sorrowfully. He continued, “All things are possible. Then there is more than a possibility, that, if alive, he whose name I cannot bring myself to speak, may never reach England. His health seems to be impaired,—he may sink under his sufferings. If he should never return, why should we have wilfully proclaimed to the world our disgrace?—for disgrace it will be in the eyes of the world, though no guilt is ours.” “But we should be guilty now, knowing what we do know.” “We are not quite sure: let us wait for confirmation before we breathe one word concerning this letter to any living being. Remember, that if we were to learn the next day that the poor prisoner had fallen a victim to his miseries, that he was at rest, though we might then be lawfully united, our child, our innocent child, would, by our own imprudence, be proved illegitimate.” Ellen’s countenance changed: she listened with a persuaded air. Mr. Hamilton resumed, “We must, for her sake, hide for the present all we feel; we must, if possible, assume a calm exterior, and trust to Providence for the issue.” “I wish I knew what was right. And yet what you tell me must be so. But I cannot,—I cannot show my face to-day; I am sure if I did, I should betray all.” After a pause, she added, “I will tell you what you must do, Algernon, though it breaks my heart to say so:—you must either allow me to pay my father a visit, or you must yourself go away for a time,—make a tour,—visit the lakes,—go to Scotland. We must not live together, till this dreadful mystery is cleared up, till our fate is ascertained one way or another.” “What! leave the company we have staying in the house? Impossible, without exciting such observations.” “They will be gone in three days, and then—then—Yes, it is better to be miserable only, than to be miserable and guilty also!” “If it is your wish, Ellen, I will leave you. It is best I should be the one to go: if you were to quit this roof it would feel more like a real and final separation.” “My fainting fit will be an excuse for my not appearing to-day. Indeed I do feel so ill. I could not bear my part in society. To-morrow I will try to do as you wish. I will strive, for the sake of my poor little Agnes.”