The opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which Charles Holland had arrived at Bannerworth Hall, we are well cognisant of. Where he expected to find smiles he found tears, and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom incidental to an occurrence of the most painful character. Our readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with an utter disbelief in the vampyre, Charles had been compelled, in some measure, to yield to the overwhelming weight of evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject, and although he could not exactly be said to believe in the existence and the appearance of the vampyre at Bannerworth Hall, he was upon the subject in a most painful state of doubt and indecision. Charles now took an opportunity to speak to Henry privately, and inform him exactly how he stood with his uncle, adding— “Now, my dear friend, if you forbid me, I will not tell my uncle of this sad affair, but I must own I would rather do so fully and freely, and trust to his own judgment upon it.” “I implore you to do so,” said Henry. “Conceal nothing. Let him know the precise situation and circumstances of the family by all means. There is nothing so mischievous as secrecy; I have the greatest dislike to it. I beg you tell him all.” “I will; and with it, Henry, I will tell him that my heart is irrevocably Flora’s.” “Your generous clinging to one whom your heart saw and loved, under very different auspices,” said Henry, “believe me, Charles, sinks deep into my heart. She has related to me something of a meeting she had with you.” “Oh, Henry, she may tell you what I said; but there are no words which can express the depth of my tenderness. ’Tis only time which can prove how much I love her.” “Go to your uncle,” said Henry, in a voice of emotion. “God bless you, Charles. It is true you would have been fully justified in leaving my sister; but the nobler and the more generous path you have chosen has endeared you to us all.” “Where is Flora now?” said Charles. “She is in her own room. I have persuaded her, by some occupation, to withdraw her mind from a too close and consequently painful contemplation of the distressing circumstances in which she feels herself placed.” “You are right. What occupation best pleases her?” “The pages of romance once had a charm for her gentle spirit.” “Then come with me, and, from among the few articles I brought with me here, I can find some papers which may help her to pass some merry hours.” Charles took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some manuscript papers, one of which he handed to Henry, saying— “Give that to her; it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much more—and that wrongfully too—than came ever under our present mysterious affliction.”