[Illustration: 114] Aunt Fanny's inventive mind had suggested every step of the interview. She kept muttering to herself: “He is explaining himself--she is incredulous--and he tries to reassure her--she believes that his heart was given to another--he vows and swears it was always hers--she cannot credit the happiness--she is too unworthy.” It was just as our aunt had got thus far in her running commentary that both voices ceased, and a stillness, unbroken by a murmur, succeeded. “What could it mean?” was the sudden question that flashed across her mind; and Napoleon's own dread anxiety, as he gazed on the wood, and hesitated whether the dark masses emerging from the shade were his own legions or the Prussians, was not much more intense than hers. At last--we are sorry to record it--but, alas! Aunt Fanny was only mortal, and an old maid to boot--she approached the door and peeped through the keyhole. The sight which met her eyes needed no second glance; she saw both heads bent down together, the dark waving hair of Cashel close to the nut-brown silky braids of Olivia. Neither spoke. “It was then concluded.” This was the moment in which mutual avowals, meeting like two rivers, form one broad and sweeping flood; it was the moment, too, in which, according to her theory; a friend was all essential. According to her phrase, the “nail should be clinched.” Now, Aunt Fanny had been cruelly handled by the family for all the blunders she had committed. Her skill had been impugned; her shrewdness sneered at; her prognostications derided. Here was an opportunity to refute all at once; and, in the language of the conqueror, “to cover herself with glory.” Gently opening the door she entered the room, and stealing tiptoe over, till she stood behind their chairs, she placed, with all the solemnity of an archbishop, a hand on either head, and, in a voice of touching fervor, said,-- “Bless ye both, my darlings; may ye be as happy as--” As what? The history is unable to record; for a shrill cry from her niece, and an exclamation nearly as loud, and we fear far less polite, from Roland, cut short the speech. Shriek followed shriek from Olivia, who, partly from the shock, and still more from shame, was thrown into an attack of hysterics. “What the--” he was very nigh saying something else--“what have you done, madam?” said Roland, in a state of mingled anger and terror. “It's only your Aunt Fanny; it's me, my pet. Livy, darling, don't be frightened; and here, too, is Mr. Cashel.” In this, however, the good lady was mistaken; for Roland had hastened upstairs to Mrs. Kennyfeck's room, which finding locked, he flew down to the great drawing-room, thence to the library, and was making for the garden, when he saw that lady and her daughter crossing the hall. “I 'm afraid, madam,” said he, with all the composure he could summon, “Miss Olivia Kennyfeck is not well; nothing serious, I trust; but a sudden fright--a shock--Miss O'Hara somewhat imprudently--”