I had long been entirely of the Widow Levy’s opinion, though the mode of expression would never have occurred to me. What afterwards became of Lady Anne and of her mother this night, I do not distinctly recollect. Lady de Brantefield, when the alarm was over, I believe, recovered her usual portion of sense, and Lady Anne her silly spirits; but neither of them, I know, showed any feeling, except for themselves. I have an image of Lady de Brantefield standing up, and making, at parting, such ungracious acknowledgments to her kind hostess and generous protector, as her pride and her prejudices would permit. Both their ladyships seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the house, and I know that I rejoiced in their departure. I was in hopes of one moment, one explanatory word or look from Berenice. She was retiring to her own apartment, as I returned, with her father, after putting those two women into their carriage. “I am now quite convinced,” said Mr. Montenero, smiling, “that Mr. Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne Mowbray.” “Is it possible you ever imagined?” “I did not _imagine_, I only heard and believed--and now I have seen, and I disbelieve.” “And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?” cried I. Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room. “I wish it were!” said Mr. Montenero; “but I pray you, sir, do not speak, do not think of this to-night--farewell! we all want repose.” I did not think that I wanted repose till the moment I lay down in bed, and then, overpowered with bodily fatigue, I fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not awaken till late the next morning, when my man, drawing back my curtains, presented to me a note from--I could hardly believe my eyes--“from Miss Montenero”--from Berenice! I started up, and read these words written in pencil: “My father is in danger--come to us.”