In a few moments, John returned with the request that the visitor would walk up, and straightway preceded him to the door of the morning room, which he opened, announcing— “Lord Montressor.” Sir Parke and Lady Morelle were seated at opposite corners of the ample fire-place, in the grate of which burned a fine fire of seacoal. Both were greatly and sadly changed. Worldliness might indeed have chilled their parental affections, and pride might have repressed all utterance of grief or mortification. But that they had suffered deeply, keenly, bitterly, was indelibly impressed upon their faces. Sir Parke had grown bald and gray; his features were visibly sunken, his form perceptibly shrunken. Lady Morelle’s fair, classic face had lost its firm oval contour and delicate bloom, and was marked with a light tracery of lines about the brow and eyes. But both retained their cold and stately self-control. As Lord Montressor advanced, Sir Parke arose and offered him his hand, saying merely— “I am glad to see you, Montressor.” “Thank you, Sir Parke; that is but just, since I come to you within twenty-four hours of my landing in England,” replied the visitor, smiling. Then he passed on to Lady Morelle, who arose coldly and offered her hand. “I hope I find your ladyship in your usual good health, this morning?” “I am well, sir, and am happy to welcome you back to England,” she replied, sinking again upon her sofa to the left of the chimney. Sir Parke resumed his seat on the right of the same. And Lord Montressor took the comfortable easy chair that had been drawn up for him by the footman, in front of the glowing fire. And there he sat with the haughty and reserved baronet, on his right, and the cold and stately lady on his left,—all silent for a few minutes until Sir Parke bethought him to dismiss the footman. When they were alone, Lord Montressor turned to the baronet, and plunging directly into the subject of all their secret thoughts, said: “Sir Parke, it has given me the profoundest satisfaction to learn from Lord Dazzleright that you have relented toward your daughter.” The baronet’s countenance never changed. He passed his hand once or twice across his thin and sunken lips and then said, slowly and composedly: “That trial, sir, however deplorable and ever-to-be regretted in itself, nevertheless elicited facts that proved Estelle to be much less blameworthy than she at first appeared. Yes, sir. Such is the judgment of those who rule, and who should rule, public opinion.” To this sentiment Lord Montressor merely bowed while waiting to hear further. “Estelle, sir, was but an infant, in bad hands, when she committed that fatal act of disobedience.” Lord Montressor could not exactly understand how Estelle had disobeyed her parents, in marrying Victoire, whom she had never been forbidden to marry; but he let it pass. Sir Parke continued in the same slow and composed manner—