One night, when, after a long dispute of this nature, the friends had separated and our hero had retired to bed, he was awakened about midnight by a suppressed groan. He started up and listened; it came from the apartment of Colonel Talbot, which was divided from his own by a wainscotted partition, with a door of communication. Waverley approached this door and distinctly heard one or two deep-drawn sighs. What could be the matter? The Colonel had parted from him apparently in his usual state of spirits. He must have been taken suddenly ill. Under this impression he opened the door of communication very gently, and perceived the Colonel, in his night-gown, seated by a table, on which lay a letter and a picture. He raised his head hastily, as Edward stood uncertain whether to advance or retire, and Waverley perceived that his cheeks were stained with tears. As if ashamed at being found giving way to such emotion, Colonel Talbot rose with apparent displeasure and said, with some sternness, 'I think, Mr. Waverley, my own apartment and the hour might have secured even a prisoner against--' 'Do not say INTRUSION, Colonel Talbot; I heard you breathe hard and feared you were ill; that alone could have induced me to break in upon you.' 'I am well,' said the Colonel, 'perfectly well.' 'But you are distressed,' said Edward; 'is there anything can be done?' 'Nothing, Mr. Waverley; I was only thinking of home, and some unpleasant occurrences there.' 'Good God, my uncle!' exclaimed Waverley. 'No, it is a grief entirely my own. I am ashamed you should have seen it disarm me so much; but it must have its course at times, that it may be at others more decently supported. I would have kept it secret from you; for I think it will grieve you, and yet you can administer no consolation. But you have surprised me,--I see you are surprised yourself,--and I hate mystery. Read that letter.' The letter was from Colonel Talbot's sister, and in these words:--