The scene within the walls was very unlike this impression. In a darkened room, where the close-drawn curtains excluded every ray of sunshine, sat Helen Darcy by the bedside of her mother. Lady Eleanor had fallen asleep after a night of intense suffering, both of mind and body, and her repose even yet exhibited, in short and fitful starts, the terrible traces of an agony not yet subdued. Helen was pale as death; two dark circles of almost purple hue surrounded her eyes, and her cheeks seemed wasted: yet she had not wept. The overwhelming amount of misfortune had stunned her for a moment or two, but, recalled to active exertion by her mother's illness, she addressed herself to her task, and seemed to have no thought or care save to watch and tend her. It was only at last when, wearied out by suffering, Lady Eleanor fell into a slumber that Helen's feelings found their vent, and the tears rolled heavily along her cheek, and dropped one by one upon her neck. Her sorrow was indeed great, for it was unalloyed by one selfish feeling; her grief was for those a thousand times more dear to her than herself, nor through all her affliction did a single thought intrude of how this ruin was also her own. The Knight was in the library, where he had passed the night, lying down at short intervals to catch some moments' rest, and again rising to walk the room and reflect upon the coming stroke of fortune. Lionel had parted from him at a late hour, promising to go to bed; but, unable to endure the gloom of his own thoughts in his chamber, he wandered out into the woods, and strolled on without knowing or caring whither, till day broke. The bodily exertion at length induced sleep, and after a few hours' deep repose he joined his father, with few traces of weariness or even sorrow. It was not without a struggle on either side that they met on that morning, and as Darcy grasped his son's hand in both his own, his lip trembled, and his strong frame shook with agitation. Lionel's ruddy cheek and clear blue eye seemed to reassure the old man's courage; and after gazing on him steadfastly with a look where fatherly love and pride were blended, he said, “I see, my boy, the old blood of a Darcy has not degenerated--you are well to-day?” “Never was better in my life,” said Lionel, boldly; “and if I could only think that you, my mother, and Helen had no cause for sorrow, I 'd almost say I never felt my spirits higher.” “My own brave-hearted boy,” said Darcy, throwing his arms around the youth's neck, while the tears gushed from his eyes and a choking stopped his utterance. “I see your letters have come,” said Lionel, gently disengaging himself, and affecting a degree of calmness his heart was very far from feeling. “Do they bring us any news?”