timidly that it was no wonder she was unheard. She knocked a third time; it was still faint and low, but there came a harsh "Come in." She opened the door, almost breathless with agitation, but with a boldness that afterwards astonished herself, and stood for a moment in the entrance. There he was, seated on a sofa, the proud, resolute Mr. Denison, with his face buried in his hands, unable to face again his child, the mere sight of whom had awakened in his heart a remorse from which he shrunk in terror. He scarcely raised his head as the door opened-he fancied it was Emmeline. Isabel stood for a moment in the doorway, then closed it, and glided to his side. * "I came....I was sent to fetch you," she murmured. He started-looked up, then hid his face again. She knelt beside him. "You are not angry with me, papa?" she said, in that low, sweet voice, which had something of the calming power of music; and, gently withdrawing his hands, she looked up in his face with unutter able tenderness. He gazed upon her for an instant, sighed, stooped and kissed her brow, and the dark fit passed away. "The fears of fancy are most terrible." He almost smiled to think how his beautiful child had been standing before him since their first meeting-not as she was-not as he now felt she was, but in stern reproof—an inexorable judge. "Not angry with you, dearest," he said, tenderly; "only angry with myself; but it is past now-let us go." He walked hurriedly to the door; then, as hurriedly, turned back, and touched his daughter's arm. "Stay, Isabel," he said: "after this night, let the past be forgotten; we speak on this subject no more; but, while I can speak, I tell you, my child, I loved your mother, even when I forsook her. See," he said, rapidly drawing a locket from his bosom, and as rapidly concealing it again. "And now, my child, give me one of your shining curls; you shall be joined together in my heart, at least. And you must learn to love me, Isabel, as she loved me." VOL. I. G (That should ring 'larum to the heart) doth sleep. BEN JONSON. It is not but the tempest that doth show DANIEL. Grosvenor Square, May 6, My dearest Aunt Rachel, You ask me if I am happy. I am, I am indeed, very happy;-but when I tell you that I am happy, you must never for a moment suppose that I forget you or anybody at Ellerton. I liked being at Torquay, for it was very beautiful, and now I like being in London, for it is all very new and exciting; but it is none of these things that makes me happy. It is papa. Oh, Aunt Rachel! you cannot conceive what an interest it is to me to try and please him! I must be happy when he looks kindly at me, as he often does, and life can never be tedious while I try to avoid his grave looks, which I dread more than anything in the world. This was what interested me at Torquay, and this is what interests me more than all besides in London. I have been going out a good deal, and I like it, but I don't think I like it very much indeed. I know some agreeable people, but there are none that I particularly care about. At first, I thought almost everybody clever and amusing; people have a light, merry way of speaking, which makes me laugh and pleases me at the time, but it does not make me care about seeing them again; I begin to wish for something else. Will you tell Herbert what I say, that is, if you think it right. The only person in London that he need be jealous of is papa; I think he may be a little jealous of him. I think, even you, Aunt Rachel, would not call my present life very dissipated. We often go out, but we never stay late, and we seldom breakfast later than ten o'clock; and after breakfast I read with Mrs. Denison, and I have masters, and I really don't waste a very great deal of time. In short, I begin to think that I am a very steady, sedate person, and that you and Herbert were quite wrong in your fears about me. I often think of Ellerton, and I have wild visions of driving down for one night (a good long drive), and once I said something about it to papa, but he looked grave, and so I must give it up for the present. And now, I must end my long, and, I am afraid, selfish letter; but you ask me so many questions that I am obliged to write about myself. Mr. Charles Denison is just come in, and begs me to give his best love to you; and also begs that if you see Mr. Grey, you will tell him that he is only just beginning to forget his sermon. I dare say he only meant these messages for impertinence, but I told him I should give them to you. God bless you, dear Aunt Rachel! I am |