The one splendid with sunshine, beautiful with verdure, brilliant with flowers, and fragrant with their breath, musical with bird songs, and more than all, blessed with the presence of her noble beloved, who stood with outstretched arms, wooing her to enter. But, was Duty there? The other, dark with cloud and storm, barren, silent, solitary, desolate, no helping hand there held out to her, no encouraging voice inviting her, she would tread it, if tread it she must, alone, with tearful eyes and bleeding feet, and staggering steps; yet not unblessed, if Duty were there. How should she decide? The question pressed itself upon her conscience for solution. She would not try to shake it off, to say—“Time enough when the trial is over”—for she felt constrained to be prepared for the result of that trial. It was a terrible ordeal! one not to be safely passed without much prayer. Estelle sank upon her knees, and prayed long and earnestly for light to see her duty, and for strength to follow it. Who ever sought the Source of light and strength and came away blind and feeble? The night spent in prayer brought a morning full of peace and courage. She had decided what her course should be in the event of an acquittal. It was eight o’clock before her bell summoned Sarah Copley, who entered as usual, smilingly, and said: “If you please, my lady, your trunks have come from Hyde, and will you please to have them brought up here?” “Yes, certainly, my girl, but how came they here?” “Please, my lady, I don’t know; but when my master sent back the Bishop’s carriage, he sent a note to Sir Parke Morelle, I know, because I handed it to John, the footman, to deliver; and, please your ladyship, the trunks came about half an hour ago, and your ladyship’s own maid came with them.” “What? Susan Copsewood?” “Yes, your ladyship, shall I send her up? or would your ladyship accept my services?” “Thank you, my good girl, no; send up Susan Copsewood.” “Yes, madam,” said the Abigail, disappearing. In a few minutes after, Susan Copsewood entered, and immediately upon the sight of her adored and unhappy mistress, sank down at her feet, embraced her knees, and burst into tears. Lady Montressor laid her hand upon the girl’s head in silent benediction. There was no utility in words as yet, and none were spoken. When, however, Susan had wept herself into calmness, and had arisen from her feet, and stood waiting, Lady Montressor inquired— “How are my father and mother, Susan?” “Hem! dear lady, I always tell you the truth if I speak at all. But now please excuse me from speaking,” said the girl, sadly. “Ah! God, is it so?—have I nearly killed or maddened my parents?” exclaimed Lady Montressor, growing deathly pale and faint, and sinking into the nearest seat.