Ellen was no sooner in her bed than she dropped into a profound slumber, from which she awoke early the next morning, refreshed in body, and with only a vague recollection of the tremendous change which had taken place in her fate. By degrees her actual situation opened upon her. How dreadful is the waking from a real sound sleep of forgetfulness, after any severe misfortune has befallen us! The temporary oblivion of our sorrows scarcely compensates for the agony of recollection. She was, however, aware of the necessity of concealing what she felt, if she wished to preserve the illegitimacy of her child from becoming public, while there was yet a hope of its remaining unknown. She passed some time in humble prayer, imploring guidance from above, judgment to know what was right, and strength to execute it. She rose from prayer in a calmer frame of mind—she felt herself fortified for the task before her— she thought that if Algernon left her at Belhanger alone, there could be no crime in delaying the promulgation of the dreadful secret, for the chance of saving herself and her child from unmerited disgrace. She went down to breakfast, and she made an attempt to smile in return to the salutations and inquiries of her friends. She was in the act of assuring them she was quite well, when Mr. Hamilton entered the apartment. She started as she heard his well-known turn of the lock, she faltered in her speech as he entered, her paleness was replaced by a vivid glow, which overspread her face, but she turned not her eyes upon him; she studiously avoided meeting his; the first sound of his voice thrilled through her very being. She took her station at the breakfast-table, upon the same spot where yesterday she had received that fatal intelligence which had so completely broken up her happiness. She took her station as mistress of the mansion to which she had no longer any right. She felt she was an impostor. Mr. Hamilton, who had the preceding day buoyed himself up with something more of hope than she had done, had passed a night of anxious restlessness. Sleep had not for one moment weighed down his eyelids; and when at length Ellen ventured almost by stealth to take one look at that beloved countenance, her heart was pierced to see it so wan, so haggard. Their object was to avoid exciting remark. A plan was proposed, and acceded to, of driving to see a fine castle in the neighbourhood, in which was a collection of pictures. Ellen accompanied the ladies in an open carriage, and Mr. Hamilton took the gentlemen across the country on horseback. While others were engaged in admiring some of the masterpieces of art, Ellen found herself near Mr. Hamilton. “Algernon, you look very ill,” she said: “it breaks my heart to see you!” “Can it be otherwise, Ellen? Even you can scarcely know the tortures I endure.”