"My child is saved," whispered Ellen to the servant. "Has my father inquired for me?"
"No, miss," was the reply. "He is still in the drawing-room; and Mr. Markham is with him."
"They are up late to-night," remarked Ellen. "But I," she continued, "am weary in mind and body, and shall at once repair to my own room."
Marian gave the young lady a candle, and wished her a good night's rest.
Ellen hastened cautiously up-stairs, and in a few minutes retired to rest.
She was fatigued, as before intimated; and yet slumber refused to visit her eyes. Nevertheless, she dozed uneasily,—in that kind of semi-sleep which weighs down the heavy lids, and yet does not completely shut out from the mind the consciousness of what is passing around.
A quarter of an hour had probably elapsed since Ellen had sought her couch, when the door slowly opened; and her father entered the room, bearing a light in his hand.
The countenance of the old man was ghastly pale; but there was a wildness in his eyes which bore testimony to the painful feelings that agitated him within.
He advanced towards the bed, and contemplated the countenance of his daughter for a few moments with an expression of profound sorrow.
Ellen opened her eyes, and started up in the bed, exclaiming, "My dear father, in the name of heaven, what is the matter?"