“Here he is,” said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the breakfast room. “Here he is, so now fire away, and don’t spare the enemy.” “And Charles?” said Flora, “where is Charles?” “D—n Charles!” cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his feelings. “Hush! hush!” said Henry; “my dear sir, hush! do not indulge now in any invectives. Flora, here are three letters; you will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion.” Flora looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into her hands. She let the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that which was addressed to herself. Henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those of her mother, who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those documents which told such a tale of heartless dissimulation. “My dear child,” said Mrs. Bannerworth, “you are ill.” “Hush! mother—hush!” said Flora, “let me know all.” She read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from her grasp, she exclaimed,— “Oh, God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles—Charles—Charles!” “Flora!” exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. “Flora, is this worthy of you?” “Heaven now support me!” “Is this worthy of the name you bear, Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope, that woman’s pride would have supported you.” “Let me implore you,” added Marchdale, “to summon indignation to your aid, Miss Bannerworth.” “Charles—Charles—Charles!” she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly. “Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings,” said Henry, “this conduct of yours would.” “Henry—brother, what mean you? Are you mad?” “Are you, Flora?” “God, I wish now that I was.” “You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with frantic tenderness.” “Yes, yes,” she cried; “frantic tenderness is the word. It is with frantic tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will.—Charles! Charles!—dear Charles!” “This surpasses all belief,” said Marchdale. “It is the frenzy of grief,” added George; “but I did not expect it of her. Flora—Flora, think again.” “Think—think—the rush of thought distracts. Whence came these letters?—where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?” “Forgeries!” exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if someone had struck him a blow. “Yes, forgeries!” screamed Flora. “What has become of Charles Holland? Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?”