She was long absent, and, when she descended, it was with steps so slow, and with an air so altered, that Harleigh, who was still writing in the room through which she had to pass, saw instantly that her letter had brought disappointment and sorrow. He had not, now, the same self-command as while he had hoped and thought that she was prosperous. He approached her, and, with a face of deep concern, enquired if there were any thing, of any sort, in which he could have the happiness to be of use to her? He stopt; but she felt his right to a curiosity which he did not avow, and immediately answered: 'My letter brings me no consolation! on the contrary, it tells me that I must depend wholly upon myself, and expect no kind of aid, nor even any intelligence again, perhaps for a considerable time!' 'Is that possible?' cried he, 'Does no one follow--or is no one to meet you?--Is there no one whose duty it is to guard and protect you? to draw you from a situation thus precarious, thus unfitting, and to which I am convinced you are wholly unaccustomed?' 'It is fatally true, at this moment,' answered Ellis, with a sigh, 'that no one can follow or support me; yet I am not deserted--I am simply unfortunate. Neither can any one here meet me: the few to whom I have any right to apply, know not of my arrival--and must not know it!--How I am to exist till I dare make some claim, I cannot yet devise: but, indeed, had it not been under this kind, protecting roof, that I have received such a letter--I think I must have sunk from my own dismay:--but Lady Aurora--' Her voice failed, and she stopt. 'Lady Aurora,' cried Harleigh, 'is an angel. Her quick appreciation of your worth, shews her understanding to be as good as her soul is pure. I can wish you no better protection.--But pardon me, if I venture again to repeat my surprise--I had almost said my indignation--that those to whom you belong, can deem it right--safe--or decent, to commit you--young as you are, full of attractions, and evidently unused to struggle against the dangers of the world, and the hardships of life,--to commit you to strangers--to chance!--' 'I know not how,' she cried, 'to leave you under so false an impression of those to whom I belong. They are not to blame. They are more unhappy than I am myself at my loneliness and its mystery: and for my poverty and my difficulties, they are far, far from suspecting them! They are ignorant of my loss at Dover, and they cannot suppose that I have missed the friend whom I came over to join.' 'Honour me,' cried he, 'with a commission, and I will engage to discover, at least, whether that friend be yet at Brighthelmstone.' 'And without naming for whom you seek her?' cried Ellis, her eyes brightening with sudden hope. 'Naming?' repeated he, with an arch smile.