for a minute," she continued, in a low voice; "but it is nothing. Did you see a stranger at church?" 66 No; at least, I observed no one in particular." The stranger was still in Isabel's mind when she went to church in the afternoon. He was not there on first going in, and she felt both relieved and disappointed; but again, as she left the church, she encountered that earnest, scutinizing gaze, and her cheek was deadly pale, when her aunt again addressed her 66 Now, my dear Isabel, what is the matter? what is this foolish fancy which is to make you look like a ghost?" "I know it is very foolish-I feel it is impossible-but I cannot help it; I fancied it might be....my father!". It was almost the first time she had ever mentioned that name to Rachel. "Dear Isabel, when so many strangers pass through Ellerton, why should it be? You must not be so fanciful, my dear child. You will have no peace in life, if you indulge your imagination in this way." Isabel made no answer, and they walked home. They stood for a few minutes in the cottage garden, and Mrs. Shepherd, leaning on the wall, spoke to some of the passers-by. Suddenly Isabel seized Rachel's arm. "Look, Aunt Rachel, there he is!" said she. The stranger passed, earnestly fixed his gaze on her face, and then, as if in atonement for his incivility, took off his hat. 66 My dear child, you are nineteen, and that young man cannot be more than twenty-seven. How can you be so foolish?" "But why, then, should he look at me so earnestly." Rachel smiled. "Few girls beside you would ask such a question, Isabel." It was the nearest approach to a compliment that Miss Shepherd had ever paid her charge. Isabel, however, was not satisfied, and her mind dwelt for some days upon the incident, till her attention was diverted by her parting with Herbert. His father was taken sud denly ill, and he required the care of his son. It was now that she first fully felt his value-first found how wonderful was the change in her feelings since his arrival at Ellerton. CHAPTER VII. Although the day be never so long, Old Rhyme. It was above nineteen years since he had left England, when Captain, now Mr. Denison, (for he had left the army,) again set his foot upon his native soil. He came back an altered man. He had left his country in the reckless, thoughtless, selfishness of manhood;—he returned, grave, sober, stern, it may be, selfish still, but selfish in a more subtle form. He left it comparatively in poverty, he came back a millionaire. He left it flying from a despised, but loved and beautiful wife; and he came back, bringing with him a wife young and fair, honoured and loved, but not as he had loved the wife of his youth. Few would have traced the gay young officer in the grave, noble-looking, respected Mr. Denison, who returned to take his place among his former friends and contemporaries, in his native land. He When Captain Denison parted from his wife, it was really with bitter sorrow, but he reasoned with himself that he had acted foolishly, and must suffer for it; and soon, very soon, reasoning was needed no more. consoled himself;-to all intents and purposes, though she occasionally crossed his path a vision of beauty, Amy was forgotten. The voyage, the arrival in India, his duties, his amusements, his companions, filled his mind. "Men have all these resources," and Amy was forgotten. It was about a year after he had deserted her, that he was sitting one day in a readingroom at Calcutta, with several young men of his acquaintance. He was bending over a table, deeply engaged in writing, when a young man approached him with a smiling face, and tapped him on the shoulder. "I congratulate you, George; you've got a daughter!" |