come to minister to her sorrow looked upon her fair waxen hand extended on the coverlid, and knew that her repose was fast-beyond earthly disturbance. Yes! she was, indeed, dead;-but so recently, that the unconscious infant still lay nestled in her bosom. The earliest summons to military duty, the first morning drum, had been her signal of release; and, ere, it sounded again she was laid by the side of her soldier in a common grave. THE SEPARATION. • Lorsque l'on aime comme il faut, Ne revient jamais assez tôt.'-MOLIERE. HE's gone, dear Fanny !-gone at last- Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover. And who shall hold my poney's bridle! Last night he left us after tea,— I never thought he'd leave us-never; He was so pleasant, was'nt he! Papa, too, said he was so clever. That little boy that looked so yellow, Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles, Told dear mamma such horrid scandal, About his moral character, For stooping, just to tie a sandal; She said he went to fights and fairs- He never squeezed me- 'pon my honour.' His regiment have got the route, (They came down here to quell the riot, If there, I'm sure he'll get the liver!- There may be bright eyes there-and then! His heart will soon beat for another. But when the song he loves is playing, Or after he has danced a waltz He never knows what he is saying. I know 'twas wrong-'twas very wrong- And when he sigh'd, and ask'd me, would I? Papa was lecturing the girls, And talked of settlements and rentals ;- While we were waiting for the carriage, He promised, if he could get leave, He'd soon come back-I wonder can he?Lord Hill is very strict, I b'lieve ; (What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny ?He said he wish'd we ne'er had met, I answer'd-it was lovely weather! And then he bade me not forget The pleasant days we'd pass'd together. He's gone-and other lips may weave A stronger spell than mine to bind him ; But bid him, if he love me, leave Those rhymes he made me love, behind him: Not always sound to mirthful measures; Tell him to leave off drinking wine. Tell him to break himself of smoking, Tell him to go to bed at nine His hours are really quite provoking, Tell him I hope he won't get fat, Tell him to act with due reflection; Tell him to wear a broad-leafed hat, Or else he'll ruin his complexion. Tell him I am so ill to day, Perhaps to-morrow I'll be better; Tell him before he goes away, To write me a consoling letter: He said he loved the best of any- GUILT AND ATONEMENT. THE cheerless sun of the first of November had just set. Through the stillness of the night was heard the melancholy sound of the bells, which announced the following day's festival. It was All Souls' day which was thus ushered in. Amid the approaching darkness were the inhabitants of the illuminated houses seen has tening to the church-yard with lights and garlands, to offer a sacrifice of love to their deceased friends and relatives, conformably to the custom of the place. In one of the suburbs not very distant from the town walls, was situated an ancient building of desolate appearance. Its high arched portal was fast closed, and the family arms above, as well as the gothic decorations of the edifice were covered with dust and cobwebs, the high bowed windows were covered by curtains of faded damask, and no lighted candle denoted the existence of a living being. Only, at the furthest extremity of the building, a faint light was seen glimmering from the window of the lower turret. There dwelt Peter Wrock, the old castellan, who had been steward of the estates of the Barons of Ahrans for forty years. Sitting in his arm chair, he leaned on the table towards a light which stood before him, that he might by its assistance read the letter, which he held in his hand. The pain. ful movement of his features betrayed an inward agitation of soul; his wrinkled and trembling hand could scarcely hold the letter, which, with a deep sigh, he laid aside. 66 Barbara," said he to an old woman, who was busily employed about some of her household affairs in the other corner of the room," Barbara, this letter is from our gracious master, he is coming back shortly, and orders me to get some of the rooms in readiness." "What do you say?" cried she, "our young master is coming back? Good Heavens, how did that occur to him? After seven years too! Good God, how much has happened in that time!" She was silent, as she was aware that she had said too much, and looked timidly towards the castellan, who had walked towards the window, and was gazing in silence at the dusky evening, and at the sky, which was nearly covered by masses of cloud driven about by the wind. Barbara, who guessed the gloomy purport of his reflections, wished to turn them to another subject. "What chamber shall I get ready for our gracious master?" asked she. "Those towards the west," replied the castellan, withont looking round. "Those which used to be occupied by Lady Beatrice ?" inquired Barbara, "I doubt whether our young master will like them?" “Why not?" said the castellan, drawing nearer to Barbara, "because the windows look towards the churchyard where my poor Josephine is sleeping?" For that very reason shall those rooms be got ready for him. He shall, if only at a distance, see the spot where one is lying, who, but for him, might yet have been living with us happily. Ah, Barbara!" cried he with a fal tering voice, "it is a hard thing for a father, to meet the murderer of his child as a master, to be obliged to dwell with him under the same roof. I hoped never to have seen him again; his conscience, I thought, would have kept him far from here; but seven years past in dissipation, have erased every trace of those painful recollections." "You are unjust to the young Baron," replied Barbara, "he acted no guilty part in this unhappy affair, the guilt lies with others; but all will come to light at last." "Yes," cried the castellan, "it will! it must! The innocence of my unfortunate Josephine, the wickedness which caused her destruction, all, I feel, must come to light; but when, and how? No matter, that is in the hands of God alone !" "I believe so too," said Barbara, as she wiped a tear from her grey eyelash, "but you should not on that account be angry with our master, poor Robert, whom you once loved so much, and carried in your arms, when he was a child, and who must himself be very unhappy." "It may be so," said the castellan, but, at any rate, he was, and will always remain the first cause of Josephine's misfortune. Why did he intrude himself into a family, who but for him would have lived happy and contented; was he not aware of the chasm which divided him from the daughter of his servant ?" "True, true!" rejoined Barbara, "he acted imprudently, but indeed he meant honorably-and, to make an end of it, Josephine was really and truly his lawful wife; I have borne witness to it before the world, and I bear witness nowthey were united by the priest's hand. They were married yonder in the Magdalen's chapel, at eleven o'clock at night;-ah! it is now nearly eight years. ago, and yet it seems to me as if I could now see Josephine standing at the altar, lovely as she was, with her myrtle-wreath and her snow-white bridal garments; oh, had you seen her at that moment!" "Would to God," sighed the castellan, "that I had suspected it; the marriage should never have been completed; and as for you, Barbara, God forgive you for aiding these thoughtless young people in their folly, and deceiving me, unfortunate man that I was!" 66 Ah, my dear sir," said Barbara, sobbing, "do not reproach me, I reproach myself often enough. But who could forsee what was to happen." "Ah, could one have foreseen that!" murmured the castellan, fixing his eyes on the ground," could one look into the future, I should not be standing here as an unhappy father, my grey hairs would not be covered with shame and disgrace, and my poor child would not have committed suicide. O God." He covered his eyes with his hands, and it seemed as if his very soul was trembling in the most fearful agonies; however, he soon collected himself, and continued with a firmer voice-"I always looked on suicide with horror, and Josephine's death would certainly have occasioned mine, had it not been the means of her escaping from a fate still more horrible. For it is most disgraceful, most fearful to perish on the scaffold-she escaped this revolting death, and-God will be gracious to her!" "Dear sir," interrupted the weeping Bar. bara, "do not indulge in these thoughts; alas! that this unlucky letter should have arrived to awaken all these sad recollections." "Awaken !” said the castellan, slowly shaking his head, "do you think they have ever slept? No, believe me, that every evening before I sink to sleep, black visions of the past float before me; Josephine glides before me, sometimes fair and blooming as she was; sometimes pale and ghostlike, with blue lips and hollow eyes, carrying the bleeding body of her child-thus do I see her-and in my dreams, in my dreams-it is yet worse, I often see her mangling her child with the knife, see its little beating heart float in blood-the vision is ghastly-it persecutes me till morning, when daylight banishes these horrible forms-I then pray to God, and as I pray, it seems as if I was certain that Josephine was innocent; and that however mysterious the circumstances, my child was not the murderess of her own." "Certainly not, certainly not!" said Barbara, drying her tears, "but be calm, and think rather on making preparations for the reception of our young master." "Not to-day, Barbara," said Peter Wrock, in a more tranquil tone. "My heart is too full to-day! Look yonder, do you not see all the people going to the churchyard, where their deceased friends are at rest? Many a tomb is glittering with its light and its garland -but, alas, there is one grave, adorned by no flowery wreath; indeed flowers would not become it, but a light may shine there; and a prayer said over it will not offend the Deity. Light me a candle, Barbara, and set it in the lantern." "You will not go ?" demanded the housekeeper anxiously." "Indeed," replied Wrock, "indeed I will bring my sacrifice to the dead, as well as others; I have done it every year for these seven years, and why should I not to-day?" "Ah, sir," sighed Barbara, "the walk to-day will affect your health; you are so excited, and the evening is so boisterous, remain at home to-day." "No, Barbara," said Wrock, I must visit my Josephine. Give me the lantern and and await my return. I shall soon be back; the churchyard is nor far off," Barbara, in compliance with his orders, gave him the lantern, with which, sunk 66 church-yard. "Do you not see," said he, "that all the people are returning home, on account of the heavy rain which is beginning to fall ?" For the first time, the castellan observed, that the clouds had united in one mass, and had begun to pour down in torrents; the wind increased its strength and extinguished the lights. which were on the tomb-stones. Peter Wrock hastened towards his dwelling. He had not proceeded far from the church-yard, when he observed the spectral being close behind him. The mantle was floating in the wind, and in spite of the darkness, Wrock could not help observing, that he was followed step for step. His path led him to a niche, where a light was burn. ing before the image of a saint. He turned round to look at the unknown, and at the same instant it whispered in his ear, "Peter Wrock," and sank to the ground before the niche, Compassion overcame the fear which had taken possession of him; he hastened to the unhappy female (for such she was) and tried to raise her, her head drooped on one side towards the lamp which shone on her countenance, her hair fell back from her forehead, and Wrock fancied that he had seen her face before, and her voice seemed familiar to him. "Peter Wrock!" whispered she again. "How do you know my name?" asked the castellan, “and what would you have with me?" She gazed at him in silence. "You appear to be ill," eontinued Peter Wrock, "where do you live, I will accompany you home." "I am strange here," said she gloomily, "take me home with you, and shelter me." The cas tellan was in a painful state of irresolution. His compassionate heart and an impulse of curiosity, were contending against an opposite feeling which repelled him from her; the latter, however, gained the victory. "Lean upon my arm, if you feel weak," said he "my dwelling is not far from here," They proceeded in silence, and reached home, when Barbara came to them with a light. With open eyes the housekeeper surveyed the stranger from head to foot, and her countenance darkened when the castellan recommended the latter to her care. The unknown one, however, threw back her mantle, shook her dishevelled hair from her face, and then asked, "Do you not know me ?" "Good God! Lady Beatrice," cried Barbara, clasping her hands. 66 Lady Beatrice "echoed the castellan, “yes, indeed, I can recognize you now. But, in the name of all the saints, why have you come here at such an hour and in such a condition? I should think it was twenty miles from here to your brother's residence.” “I have been there until now," said Beatrice, "when after my uncle's death, I left his house and went to my brother. I was there a long-long time-but I was forced to return-I wished to see this spot once more." She spoke in broken sentences, and seemed much agitated. seem very ill, Lady Beatrice," said the castellan, are you overcome by your journey ?" He led her to the arm chair, into which she sank; and then gave directions to the housekeeper instantly to get a room ready for the lady." Beatrice heard this; "I will not occupy one of the upper apartments," said she, "I will remain near Barbara." "As you please, lady," said Wrock, "but you know that the chambers of this lower turret are but poorly furnished, they were ouly occu pied by the domestics. The green chamber, which was formerly my Josephine's, is the pleasantest." "Not that! do not give me that," said Beatrice hastily. A fn deep thought, he went to the churchyard. Many supplicants were kneeling in calm devotion and sad remembrance on the mounds and tomb-stones, the withered grass and moss of which were decorated with their customary ornaments. Garlands of tinsel and pale autumn flowers, woven by the hand of love, were suspended on black crosses, and on every grave was a glimmering light, which often shone on the faces of those who were praying, and showed they were wet with tears. High above this scene of painful remembrance and calm melancholy was the moon wandering among gloomy scattered clouds, and shedding a dim light on the churchyard beneath. The branches of the trees which grew on this spot, were almost bare; and as they waved in the wind, cast trembling shadows which appeared like wandering ghosts. Peter Wrock stepped between the graves, till he came to the farther end of the churchyard, where, without a cross, and far from the other graves, stood a lonely mound, which covered Josephine. Wrock set his lantern on the grave, and reverentially uncovering his head, sank on his trembling knees and prayed in silence, while the wind sported with his grey hair. He had not been long at his devotions, when he heard behind him a rustling as if some one approached, he looked round and beheld a veiled form which leaned against a tree, and seemed stedfastly to be watching him. Dark locks were dishevelled about its pale face and half concealed its features; and a dark mantle which moved in the wind, surrounded this apparition, which, at the first glance, would have been deemed supernatural. The castellan at first did not know whether he saw a man or a woman near him, but, however, he rather took this singular being for the latter. A strange shuddering came over him when he first beheld the gloomy form, at length he turned away his eyes and again resumed his prayer. But he was soon disturbed by a loud and heavy sigh, which seemed to proceed from an agonized breast; Wrock could not help once more looking at the form, and more than once did he shrink within himself as the hollow fixed eye of the unknown one fell upon him. At this instant the grave-digger passed, and the form catching him by the arm, asked with a voice, the hollow tone of which pierced the castellan's very marrow: "who is buried here ?" She pointed to Josephin's grave. "Here lies," answered the gravedigger, "one who murdered her child. She was pri vately married to a gentleman of rank; he deserted her, and in a fit of despair she killed her new-born babe, and then herself, to avoid a death by the executioner, into whose hands she must have fallen." Wrock's teeth chattered and he trembled like one in an ague fit. He hastily arose from his kneeling posture. "You lie, man" cried he to the grave-digger," my daughter did not murder her child, she was accused unjustly; but the curse of God will light on the wretch who dared to act so basely." "Be that as it may," said the grave. digger" let who will have done it, I only speak as I have heard." He turned about and went his way. Wrock's glances fell on the unknown form. standing motionless and looked fixedly towards the grave, which the castellan had just left. They stood face to face, and Wrock's hair began to stand on end ; for the longer he gazed at this being, the more unearthly it appeared. The grave-digger at length returned and reminded them, that it was time to leave the It was "You 66 or painful silence followed, which Wrock interrupted by this question. "Have you come quite alone, lady,have you brought no attendant ?" "None," replied Beatrice, "Barbara can supply the place of my servant; I shall not trouble you long." "Hey!" said Barbara, "my lady will not go away directly; in a few days we expect your gracious cousin, the young baron. "Is Robert coming?" cried Beatrice. "Yes, my lady," answered the castellan, "I have this day received a letter from him; he orders me to get his apartments in readiness, as he will shortly be here." Beatrice seemed to gaze on vacancy, as if she had not heard the words of the castellan; after a long pause she resumed her inquiries : "How long is it since Robert was here ?" "He has not entered the house these seven years; he has, as you are well aware, been travelling for some time in foreign parts, and is now returning, probably, to take possession of his inheritance." Another painful stillness ensued. "Ah, my lady!" began Barbara, anxious to break off so unpleasant a silence, "they were happy times, when we all lived here in peace together. Ab, methinks I can see you now, as you played at chess with the old baron, and rode races with the young one. Oh! how noble you appeared on horseback, and you knew how to manage the wildest steed; once, indeed, you failed, and were hurt; do you not remember it ?" "Yes, perfectly, Barbara," answered Baatrice, "how should I forget it, you attended me so faithfully." "I did but little, my lady," replied Barbara, "it was the kind Josephine, who watched by your side day and night." Beatrice's lips trembled with a convulsive motion. "Barbara," said she, interrupting the old woman, "I feel fatigued and unwell-very unwell-I should like to retire to rest." While Barbara was busied in preparing a chamber for the lady, the latter seated herself opposite to the castellan, and cast her eyes, with a wild expression, round the room, till she suddenly fixed them on a picture which hung against the wall and was covered by a thick veil; she gazed motionless on it for some time, her mouth became more convulsed, her countenance became more gloomy, till at last she screamed aloud. "Peter Wrock," cried she in a tone which made the old man tremble,"defend me! The picture-the horrible horrible picture is coming to me see how it steps out of its frame, how its fearful eyes dart their lightnings at me." My gracious lady," said Wrock, approaching her, "how came you by such imaginations? That picture cannot move it is the picture of my poor daughter; it is hanging quietly against the wall, as quietly as she is sleeping in the grave." No, no!" cried Beatrice, "the picture does not hang quietly; Josephine does not sleep quietly, do not think it; she will never sleep quietly till-till -oh! yes, I know she was my bitterest enemy." "God forgive your words, lady," interrupted Wrock, "she was not your enemy." "No, no!" cried Beatrice again, "did she not rob me of my beloved-my bridegroom?" "She did it unwillingly," said Wrock, "pardon her, as you hope God will pardon you." Beatrice laughed wildly. "Pardon me!" cried she, and the castellan shrank at her dark look, “ pardon me! will he do that? 1 tell you Josephine herself was guilty; but see, the picture is moving again-see how it distorts its features! take it away! take it out of the room!" Wrock went up to the picture, and, as he laid hold of it to remove it, the veil which covered it fell down, and the 66 66 enchanting features were displayed. With a loud cry of agony Beatrice fell to the ground. Barbara hastened into the room on hearing the voice of the castellan, and the lady was carried into the chamber prepared for her, where the old housekeeper watched at her side, and the castellan looked among his household drugs, for means to restore Beatrice to animation. She revived, but it was to a dark dreary consciousness. A feverish delirium had clouded her imagination, and she expressed the feelings which rent her very vitals by awful words, which seemed to rise from the very bottom of her soul. Her broken speech was, in general, addressed to an invisible object, which seemed to fill her with terror; she then again called Peter Wrock, and besought him in the most piteous tone not to leave her; the gloom of the chamber, which was half dark, seemed to oppress her; they were obliged to light several candles, and as she was terrifed at some old pictures which hung on the wall, they were forced to remove them. Thus she continued as if wrestling with some dark power, till, being exhausted at last, she sank into a troubled sleep. As soon as the light of the dawning day exceeded that of the glimmering candles, she once more awoke. Wrock and Barbara, who had alternately watched by her, were shocked at the alteration of her features, which was plainly shewn by the morning light. "Is this, indeed, the once fair and proud Lady Beatrice, who lies here before us, like a withered trodden-flower of autumn? This was whispered by Barbara to the castellan, little suspecting that she who lay half asleep before them, could hear her words; but Beatrice opened her dim eyes, and said in a faint voice, "Flowers droop their heads at the approach of night, and the proud one casts off pride when the last night draws near." She had recovered full possession of her faculties, and asked what she had said during the night. "A strong fever was upon you," said Barbara," and your speech sometimes wandered, but I could not understand what you said." This answer seemed to satisfy her. The castellan would have sent for a physician, but she would not suffer it. The greatest part of the day she passed in tolerable calmness, and at length she rose from her bed, asked for materials for writing, and requested to be left alone. Her request was complied with, yet Barbara remained in the next room, to listen to every movement which the lady might make. After an hour elapsed, Beatrice rang the bell, upon which Babara entered, and found her very much exhausted, and still paler than when she had sunk in the arm chair the evening before. She asked for sealing-wax and a light, and when they were brought, she took a sheet of paper on which she had written, folded, sealed and directed it, and placed it before her. She then rested her elbows on the table, let her head sink upon her hands, and sat as if in deep reflection. Barbara thought she was praying, and stood silently at some distance, that she might not disturb her. The bell of the neighbouring church, which rang for vespers, awakened Beatrice from her meditations. "Barbara," she began, "it seems as if that bell responded to my thoughts." What then were you thinking of," asked the old housekeeper, hesitatingly, "I was think ing," replied Beatrice, " of God and his mercy; I was thinking whether it extended to every sinner." "To every one, doubtless," said Barbara, "who sincerely repents of his sins, at least so my confessor always said, to my consolation; for, though I am conscious of no very grievous sins, we all stand in need of the saving grace of God.” Yes," returned Beatrice, "s0 I thought just now, and in my mind I prayed to God to give me a sign, whether or not he forgave all sins, however great they might be, and then the vesper bell rang, and sounded as I had never heard it before, it was as if I could hear the voice of God announcing to all men forgiveness for their sins; do you not hear the strange sound, Barbara," "It only rings as usual," answered Barbara, 66 your fancy makes it sound otherwise." Beatrice listened to the bells with the most earnest attention. “No!" said she, “it is no ordinary sound; it is the voice of God! it invites me. Barbara, lead me to church, I will, I must pray there! Alas! it is long since I have been able to pray." "You would not go to church," said Barbara, "so weak and ill as you are?" "Who says that I am ill" cried Beatrice, hastily, "I tell you I am not, if you will not take me to church, I will go alone." She raised herself, and made a motion as if about to leave the room. Barbara called the castellan, who in vain endeavoured to restrain Beatrice, and was at last forced to give up. A sedan chair was fetched; Peter Wrock helped Beatrice in, and then seated himself beside her. He looked at her with painful anxiety, as with trembling feet she ascended the broad steps before the church door. A gloomy presentiment possessed his mind, and he kept close by her that he might not lose sight of her for an instant. It was towards the end of a short autumn day; the setting sun was shining through the church windows, and cast its dim slanting rays on the old pictures and escutcheons which covered the walls, so that many an image of a saint, illuminated by the red light, appeared to shine in the glory of transfiguration. Deep silence reigned among the supplicants in the House of God; nothing was heard but the light step of those that passed, and the rustling of the wind among the variegated leaves of the trees which grew before the church windows. Beatrice knelt down before the image of a saint. Her hands were folded, but her thoughts appeared unsettled, and her glance shrank back timidly as it fell on the heavendirected face of the saint, whose holy calmness was a striking contrast with the agitated condition of her soul. Wrock knelt close by her, and prayed in silence. It at once struck him that the lady was trembling; he looked round with alarm, and saw that her looks were fixed on a pillar which was near them, and against which a man of gloomy aspect, clad in a travelling dress, was leaning. Wrock, fearing a new attack of Beatrice's delirium, requested her, in a whisper, to leave the church, but she did not hear him; her eyes remained on the same spot, while her whole countenance was convulsed. The stranger had perceived her, and his dark glance fell upon her face, as if he wished to recognize her features; presently he approached her, and Beatrice, eagerly catching hold of the castellan's arm, cried in a stifled voice; "Robert! He is coming to kill me!" She fainted away. Wrock, in the most painful anxiety and perturbation of mind, lifted her up, and tried to avoid observation. Two ladies from the neighbouring pews hastened to her assistance, while Wrock, who had recoguized his master in the stranger, saluted him with respect. Robert Von Ahran had ar It rived at the town, when the bells where ringing for vespers. His heart overflowing with various sensations, was deeply struck as he approached the cathedral, where, as a child, he had so often prayed by the side of his mother, and where that beloved mother had now long slept in the peaceful sleep of death. He stopped his coach, alighted and entered the church, where he saw Beatrice, who recognized him, before he observed her. She fell before his glance, as if struck by a thunderbolt, and was carried home senseless, where she arrived nearly at the same time with Robert. Her revival was accompanied by a strong paroxysm of fever, while in her wandering speech she accused herself of the most horrible things. Robert was present at these expressions of her disordered fancy, and heard, with horror, the dark words, which seemed to indicate a concealed agony, a deep and black secret of the breast; his hair stood on end, and deeply shocked he left her. A physician was sent for, inquired into the situation of his patient, and significantly shook his head. After being bled, pursuant to his orders, the suffering lady became somewhat calmer, and sank gradually to sleep. Barbara only left her bedside, to make some domestic arrangements, the castellan roamed about the house, and Robert sat in his room by a broad marble chimney, in which a fire was glowing brightly. The number of candles in gilt chandeliers spread the light of day over the antique chamber, but the darkest night ruled in Robert's soul. He would not touch the supper which had been got ready for him, and made a sign to the servant that he would be left alone. struck eleven, when the castellan entered; he found his master leaning against the gilded moulding of the chimney-piece, with his eye fixed on the glimmering flame. For some moments both stood face to face, each eyeing the other with timidity; as Wrock approached his master, he seemed sensible of a victory, and he smiled bitterly as he observed the confusion of the latter. It was he that first broke the silence. "Gracious master," said he, as he handed to him a sealed paper, which he had brought, "this has been written by Lady Beatrice, be so good as to read the superscription, and say, what shall be done with it." The Baron eagerly took the paper, and holding it up to the light, read these words: To be opened after my death." It was evident from its appearance that it had been written with a trembling hand; while the Baron trembled no less. The lady's request shall be complied with," said he, as long as she lives this paper must remain unopened." "With your pardon, gracious master," said Wrock, "but if the lady, as I hope, should recover" he hesitated, "then," said Robert, the paper shall be returned to her. But did she give it to you herself?" he enquired. She gave it to no one," was the reply," she let it lie on the table, where she had written it, and I found it there just now, when she was asleep. You will pardon me, gracious master, for expressing my opinion," continued he after a short pause, "but I think it would be better to break the seal at all events, and read the contents of the paper." "Do not harbour such a thought, old man!" said Robert, and he threw the letter on a table. Wrock snatched at it eagerly, "I have never designedly acted in opposition to your commands," said he in a firm tone, but here, gracious master, here, I will do so. I will break open the paper" He was already in 66 . |