"I hardly dare to tell you, dearest sir: you have always been as a father to me, and I never knew any other; but there are things I cannot explain to myself, and I was very wretched; and so, kind guardian, Charles--Charles was so good--" "What has he done?--where has he gone?" hastily asked his father. "Oh, don't, don't be angry with us; in a word, he is gone to Madras, to find out Nurse Mackie, and to tell me who I am." The poor old man, who had treasured up so long some mystery, probably a very diaphanous one, for Emily's own dear sake in the world's esteem, and from the long bad habit of reserve, fell back into his chair as if he had been shot; but he did not faint, nor gasp, nor utter a sound; he only looked at her so long and sorrowfully, that she ran to him, and covered his pale face with her own brown curls, kissing him, and wiping from his cheek her starting tears. "Emmy, dear--I can tell you--and I--no, no, not now, not now; if he comes back--then--then; poor children! Oh, the sin of secresy!" "But, dearest sir, do not be so sad; Charles has happy news, he says." "Happy, child? Good Heaven! would it could be so!" "Indeed, indeed, a week ago he was as miserable as any could be, and so was I; for he heard something terrible about me--I don't know what--but I feared I was a--Pariah! However, now he is all joy, and coming home again as soon as possible." The general shook, his head mournfully, as physicians do when hope is gone; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful. "You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say: but I do not command you, Emmy; do as you like." "Certainly, my own kindest guardian--all, all, and instantly." And flying up to her room, she returned with as much closely-written manuscript as would have taken any but a lover's eye a full week to decipher. The general, not much given to literary matters, looked quite scared at such a prospect. "Wait, Emmy; not all, not all; show me the last." I dare say Emily will forgive me if I get it set up legibly in print. May I, dear? CHAPTER XXI. CHARLES AT MADRAS. LUCKILY enough for all mankind in general, and our lovers in particular, Charles's last letter was very unlike some that had preceded it; for instead of the usual "Oh, my love"'s, "sweet, sweet eyes," "darling"'s, and all manner of such chicken-hearted nonsense, it was positively sensible, rational, not to say utilitarian: though I must acknowledge that here and there it degenerates into the affectionate, or Stromboli-vein of letter-writing, at opening especially; and really now and then I shall take leave to indicate omitted inflammations by a *. "DEAREST, DEAREST EMMY, * * * * * [and so forth, a very galaxy of stars to the bottom of this page; enough to put the compositor out of his terrestrial senses.]