"Hah!" thought Zorilda, "Can this be the explanation? Is Algernon the unseen guardian who has been watching over me, and to whose friendly care I have been indebted for avoiding danger, though I know not of what nature? But no: the letter which I received is not in his hand-writing, and the sentiments which it expresses, so full of delicate consideration for the unhappy Zorilda, are alas! little in unison with the language of yesterday evening, which still echoes through my heart. Nothing but mystery appears to surround me whichever way my eyes are directed." On meeting Mrs. Hartland in the breakfast-parlour, Zorilda's looks too plainly bespoke the state of her mind to leave a doubt of what she endured. A few constrained questions and answers broke the rigid silence which would otherwise have marked this unsocial meeting. Mrs. Hartland rang the bell, and ordering the tea things to be taken away, desired her young companion to wait her return; and quitting the room, left Zorilda in new perplexity at what was next to happen. Mrs. Hartland re-appeared in a few minutes, bringing an ink-stand and paper in her hand. Shutting the door, and laying these upon a table, she ordered Zorilda, in a stern voice, to sit down opposite to her, with which the latter having complied, she proceeded to unfold her object. "It is no longer possible," said Mrs. Hartland, "to be silent. The time is come when it is necessary to explain my views, and come to an open understanding with you. Your attachment to my son cannot be mistaken, and I must tell you plainly, that it highly displeases Mr. Hartland and me. _You_ should recollect our relative positions: you, an unknown orphan, discovered, accidentally, in a gipsey camp, without name, family, or pretensions; redeemed from the infamy of associating with a lawless horde by the charity which brought you here, are finely repaying the protectors of your childhood! Can you suppose, for a moment, that because you were permitted during infancy to be the companion of my son, and allowed, in after life to share the instructions which were bestowed on him by Mr. Playfair; can you, I repeat, imagine for a single instant that you were ever designed to be his wife? Do you think that a pretty face is sufficient qualification for the future Countess of Marchdale, or that Lord Hautonville's parents would ever look upon him again, were the wiles of an artful girl to betray his honourable mind into a remembrance of the boyish vows which children make to each other before they comprehend the nature of a promise? There is only one act by which you can ease my mind, and restore yourself to that place in my regards from which, I confess with regret, that you have fallen. Here are paper, pen, and ink; I have never found you untrue, and shall depend with confidence upon your written assurance, regularly signed, for my _full_ satisfaction, that from this moment, you not only renounce all