"And from whom," said he, in a faint voice, as he calmly put down the verses,—"from whom did your mother learn these words?"
"I know not; some dear friend, years ago, composed and gave them to her. It must have been one very dear to her, to judge by the effect they still produce."
"Think you," said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "think you IT WAS YOUR FATHER?"
"My father! She never speaks of him! I have been early taught to shun all allusion to his memory. My father!—it is probable; yes, it may have been my father; whom else could she have loved so fondly?"
There was a long silence; Evelyn was the first to break it.
"I have heard from my mother to-day, Ernest; her letter alarms me,—I scarce know why!"
"Ah! and how—"
"It is hurried and incoherent,—almost wild: she says she has learned some intelligence that has unsettled and unstrung her mind; she has requested me to inquire if any one I am acquainted with has heard of, or met abroad, some person of the name of Butler. You start!—have you known one of that name?"
"I!—did your mother never allude to that name before?"
"Never!—and yet, once I remember—"