"But what did you hide yourself for, Ned?" demanded Emmeline, all her high spirits recalled. Her cousin hesitated and a flush mounted to his forehead.
"It was fear, Emmeline; absolute fear!"
"Fear!" she repeated, laughing; "of what? of all the bogies and spirits of the winds and waves, whose wrath you dared, by venturing to oppose them? Nonsense, Edward! you will never make me believe that."
"Because you do not know me," he answered, with startling earnestness. "How can your gentle nature understand the incongruities of mine? or loving your father as you do, and as he deserves, comprehend the dread, belief in his unpitying sternness to youthful error, which from my childhood he held—he holds—my fate, forgiveness or exposure, and how could I meet him calmly? Emmeline, Emmeline, if I had been but as morally brave as I may be physically, I should have had nothing to dread, nothing to hide. As it is, uncle Hamilton, judge, act, decide as you would, if I had not been the undeserved means of saving you—it will be the best for me;" and, rising hurriedly, he left the room before any one could reply.
"But you will forgive him, papa; you will try him again; and I am sure he will be morally brave, too," pleaded Emmeline; her sister and Miss Harcourt joining in the entreaty and belief, and Mrs. Hamilton looking in his face without uttering a word. Mr. Hamilton's answer seemed to satisfy all parties.
Ellen meanwhile had awoke, quite refreshed, and all pain gone, been dressed and conveyed to her daily quarters, the events of the morning entirely unknown to her; for though the joyful news, spreading like wildfire through the house, had reached Mrs. Langford's ears, and made her very happy, she had quite judgment enough, even without a message to the effect from her mistress, to keep it from Ellen till carefully prepared.
"What can I say to my little Ellen for deserting her so long?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, playfully, as she entered her room, about twelve o'clock, after a long private conversation with her husband.
"I wish you would tell me you had been lying down, dear aunt; it would satisfy me better than any other reason."
"Because you think it would do me the most good, dearest. But look at me, and tell me if you do not think I must have been trying some equally efficacious remedy." Ellen did look, and so radiant was that kind face with happiness, that she was startled.
"What has happened, aunt Emmeline? You have heard from my uncle," she added, her voice trembling. "What does he say?—will he—"