thought of her child was still uppermost in the mother’s mind, though her excessive debility compelled her to lie motionless for hours on her couch, scarcely sensible of anything passing around her, or that her husband and Ellen hardly for one moment left her side.  The plan succeeded, Caroline recovered soon after Percy’s arrival; and at the earnest message Percy bore her from her mother, that she would not think of returning to England till her health was quite restored, she consented leisurely to take the celebrated excursion down the Rhine, ere she returned home.

It would have seemed as though no other grief could be the portion of Ellen, but another sorrow was impending over her, which, while it lasted, was a source of distress inferior only to Herbert’s death.  Entering the library one morning, she was rather surprised to find not only Mr. Maitland but Archdeacon Howard with her uncle.

The former was now too constantly a visitor at the Hall to occasion individually much surprise, but it was the expression on the countenances of each that created alarm.  Mr. Hamilton appeared struggling with some strong and painful emotion, and had started as Ellen entered the room, while he looked imploringly towards the Archdeacon, as if seeking his counsel and assistance.

“Can we indeed trust her?” Mr. Maitland said, doubtingly, and in a low voice, as he looked sadly upon Ellen.  “Can we he sure these melancholy tidings will be for the present inviolably kept from Mrs. Hamilton, for suspense such as this, in her present state of health, might produce consequences on which I tremble to think?”

“You may depend upon me, Mr. Maitland,” Ellen said, firmly, as she came forward.  “What new affliction can have happened of which you so dread my aunt being informed?  Oh, do not deceive me.  I have heard enough to make fancy perhaps more dreadful than reality, Mr. Howard.  My dear uncle, will you not trust me?”

“My poor Ellen,” her uncle said, in a faltering voice, “you have indeed borne sorrow well; but this will demand even a greater share of fortitude.  All is not yet known, there may be hope, but I dare not encourage it.  Tell her, Howard,” he added, hastily, shrinking from her sorrowful glance, “I cannot.”

“Is it of Edward you would tell me?  Oh, what of him?” she exclaimed.  “Oh, tell me at once, Mr. Howard, indeed, indeed, I can bear it.”

With the tenderness of a father, Mr. Howard gently and soothingly told her that letters had that morning arrived from Edward’s captain, informing them that the young lieutenant had been despatched with a boat’s crew, on a message to a ship stationed about twelve miles southward, towards the Cape of Good Hope; a storm had arisen as the night darkened, but still Captain Seaforth had felt no uneasiness, imagining his young officer had deemed it better remaining on board the Stranger all night, though somewhat contrary to his usual habits of promptness and activity.