“‘Be seated, Emily,’ said her father, moving towards her a chair, and gently placing her in it immediately opposite to him, at only a very little distance. She thought that she had never till that moment seen her father’s face, or at least had never before noticed its true character. How cold and severe was the look of the penetrating eyes now fixed on her—how rigid were the features—how commanding the expression which they wore—how visibly clouded with sorrow, and marked with the traces of suffering!
“‘And what, Emily, would you say?’ he inquired, calmly.
“‘Dearest papa, I would say, if I dared, what my sister said to you so short a time ago—Forgive!’
“‘Whom?’ inquired the Earl, striving to repress all appearance of emotion.
“‘Him who is to die on Monday next—Adam Ayliffe. Oh, my dearest papa, do not—oh, do not look so fearfully at me!’
“‘You mean, Emily, the murderer of your brother!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Am I right? Do I understand you?’ inquired her father, gloomily.
“‘But I think that he is not—I do believe that he is not.’
“‘But how can it concern you, Emily, to think or believe on the subject? Good child, meddle not with what you understand not. Who has put you upon this, Emily?’
“‘My own heart, papa.’
“‘Bah, girl!’ cried the Earl, unable to restrain his angry impulse, ‘do not patter nonsense with your father on a subject like this. You have been trained and tutored to torment me on this matter!’