"What has he done?—where has he gone?" hastily asked his father.
"Oh, don't, don't be angry with us; in a word, he is gone to Madras, to find out Nurse Mackie, and to tell me who I am."
The poor old man, who had treasured up so long some mystery, probably a very diaphanous one, for Emily's own dear sake in the world's esteem, and from the long bad habit of reserve, fell back into his chair as if he had been shot; but he did not faint, nor gasp, nor utter a sound; he only looked at her so long and sorrowfully, that she ran to him, and covered his pale face with her own brown curls, kissing him, and wiping from his cheek her starting tears.
"Emmy, dear—I can tell you—and I—no, no, not now, not now; if he comes back—then—then; poor children! Oh, the sin of secresy!"
"But, dearest sir, do not be so sad; Charles has happy news, he says."
"Happy, child? Good Heaven! would it could be so!"
"Indeed, indeed, a week ago he was as miserable as any could be, and so was I; for he heard something terrible about me—I don't know what—but I feared I was a—Pariah! However, now he is all joy, and coming home again as soon as possible."
The general shook, his head mournfully, as physicians do when hope is gone; but still he looked perplexed and thoughtful.
"You will show me the letters, dear, I dare say: but I do not command you, Emmy; do as you like."
"Certainly, my own kindest guardian—all, all, and instantly."