Another silence, when the general hastily finishing his breakfast, took up the newspaper, and said, “I wished to have spared you the pain of seeing these, Miss Stanley, but it must be done now. There have appeared in certain papers, paragraphs alluding to Beauclerc and to you; these scandalous papers I never allow to enter my house, but I was informed that there were such paragraphs, and I was obliged to examine into them. I am sorry to find that they have some of them been copied into my paper to-day.” He laid the newspaper before her. The first words which struck her eye were the dreaded whispers of last night; the paragraph was as follows: “In a few days will be published the Memoirs of the late Colonel D’----, comprising anecdotes, and original love-letters; which will explain the mysterious allusions lately made in certain papers to ‘_La belle Fiancée_,’ and ‘_I promessi sposi_.” “What!” exclaimed Helen; “the letters! published!” The general had turned from her as she read, and had gone to his writing-desk, which was at the furthest end of the room; he unlocked it, and took from it a small volume, and turning over the leaves as he slowly approached Helen, he folded down some pages, laid the volume on the table before her, and then said, “Before you look into these scandalous memoirs, Miss Stanley, let me assure you, that nothing but the necessity of being empowered by you to say what is truth and what is falsehood, could determine me to give you this shock.” She was scarcely able to put forward her hand; yet took the book, opened it, looked at it, saw letters which she knew could not be Cecilia’s, but turning another leaf, she pushed it from her with horror. It was the letter--beginning with “My dear--too dear Henry.” “In print!” cried she; “In print! published!” “Not published yet, that I hope to be able to prevent,” said the general. Whether she heard, whether she could hear him, he was not certain, her head was bent down, her hands clasping her forehead. He waited some minutes, then sitting down beside her, with a voice of gentleness and of commiseration, yet of steady determination, he went on:--“I _must_ speak, and you _must_ hear me, Helen, for your own sake, and for Beauclerc’s sake.” “Speak,” cried she, “I hear.” “Hear then the words of a friend, who will be true to you through life--through life and death, if you will be but true to yourself, Helen Stanley--a friend who loves you as he loves Beauclerc; but he must do more, he must esteem you as he esteems Beauclerc, incapable of any thing that is false.” Helen listened with her breath suspended, not a word in reply. “Then I ask----” She put her hand upon his arm, as if to stop him; she had a foreboding that he was going to ask something that she could not, without betraying Cecilia, answer. “If you are not yet sufficiently collected, I will wait; take your own time--My question is simple--I ask you to tell me whether _all_ these letters are your’s or not?”