inexcusable, and she wrote as she thought.  Annie, as might have been expected, deigned her no reply.  A few languidly written letters her mother received from her during her tour; but the chief of her correspondence was reserved for Miss Malison and the lady who had so ably assisted their secret plans.  The friendly influence of Mr. Hamilton succeeded, after a few days, in restoring his friend to comparative outward composure, although the wound within, he too sadly felt, was beyond his power to heal.

A few days passed in peace.  Mrs. Hamilton and her family were anticipating with pleasure the quiet happiness of Oakwood, and the event then to take place.  Scarcely a week intervened before their departure, when they were one afternoon startled by the appearance of Grahame, whose countenance bore the pallid hue of death, and every action denoted the most fearful agitation.  Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, Caroline and St. Eval, were alone present, and they gazed on him in unfeigned alarm.

“Hamilton, I start for Brussels to-night,” was his salutation, as he entered.

“Brussels!” repeated Mr. Hamilton.  “Grahame, you are beside yourself.  What affairs can call you to Brussels so suddenly?”

“Affairs—­business; aye, of such weight, I cannot rest till they are attended to.  Hamilton, you are astonished; you think me mad; oh, would to God I were!” and striking his forehead with his clenched hand, he paced the room in agony.

Ere his friend could approach or address him, he suddenly paused before Caroline, who was watching him in alarm and commiseration, and grasping her arm, with a pressure that pained her, he said, in a voice which blanched her cheek with horror—­

“Hamilton, look on this girl, and, as you love me, answer me.  Could you be a Roman father, did you see her dishonoured,—­the victim, the wilful victim of a base, a treacherous, miserable villain?—­say, could you wash away the blackening stain with blood—­with her blood—­or his, or both?  Speak to me—­counsel me.  My child, my child!” he groaned aloud.

“Grahame, you are ill; my dear friend, you know not what you say,” exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, terrified both at his wildness and his words.  “Come with me till this strange mood has passed; I entreat it as a favour—­come.”

“Passed—­till this mood has passed!  Hamilton, it will never pass till the grave has closed over Annie and myself.  Oh, Hamilton, my friend, I had reconciled myself to this marriage; taught myself to believe that, as his wife, she might be happy; and—­oh, God! can I say the words?—­she is not his wife—­he is already married.”  His trembling limbs refused support, and he sunk, overcome by his emotion, on a chair.  Without a minute’s pause, a moment’s hesitation, and ere her father could find words to reply, Caroline sprung forward, and kneeling beside the wretched father, she seized his hand—­