On returning to her own apartment, the thoughts of Fanny began to flow in another channel. The interest which the young stranger had awakened in her mind was no fleeting impulse. His image, daguerreotyped on her heart, no light breath could dim. That he was good and honourable, she believed; and, therefore, had faith in him. Yet had his sudden appearance and injunction of silence disturbed her, as we have seen, very deeply. Her guileless heart shrunk from concealment, as if it were something evil. How bewildered were all her perceptions, usually so calm! A sense of relief had been felt, the instant she saw that her father's mind was no longer in doubt on the question of Mr. Lyon's return from the South--relief, that he was deceived in a matter which might involve the most serious consequences. But this feeling did not very long remain; and she became the subject of rapidly alternating states. Fanny remained alone until the summons to tea startled her from a sad, half-dreaming state of mind. Not to meet her father and mother at the tea-table would, she saw, attract toward her a closer attention than if she mingled with the family at their evening meal; and so she forced herself away from the congenial seclusion of her own apartment. As she took her place at the table, she was conscious that the eyes of her father and mother, as well as those of Aunt Grace, were fixed scrutinizingly upon her; and she felt the blood growing warmer in her cheeks, and flushing her whole countenance. An unusual restraint marked the intercourse of all during their meal. Two or three times Mr. Markland sought to draw his daughter into a conversation; but she replied to his remarks in the briefest manner, and evidently wished to escape all notice. "I'm really troubled about Fanny," said Mrs. Markland to her husband, as they sat looking out upon the fading landscape, as the twilight deepened. "Where is she? I've not had a glimpse of her since tea." "In her own room, I suppose, where she now spends the greater part of her time. She has become reserved, and her eyes grow moist, and her cheeks flushed, if you speak to her suddenly." "You must seek her confidence," said Mr. Markland. "I want that without the apparent seeking," was answered. "She knows me as her truest friend, and I am waiting until she comes to me in the most unreserved freedom." "But will she come?" "Oh, yes! yes!"--was the confidently-spoken answer. "Soon her heart will be laid open to me like the pages of a book, so that I can read all that is written there." "Mr. Lyon awakened a strong interest in her feelings--that is clearly evident." "Too strong; and I cannot but regard his coming to Woodbine Lodge as a circumstance most likely to shadow all our future." "I do really believe," said Mr. Markland, affecting a playful mood, "that you have a latent vein of superstition in your character."