"Dearest sir, you are often thinking of poor lost Charles, I know; and
you are very anxious about him too, though nobody but myself, who am
always with you, can perceive it: what if you heard he was safe and
well?"

"Have you heard any tidings of my poor boy, Emmy?"

She looked up archly, and said, "Why not?" her beautiful eyes adding, as
plainly as eyes could speak, "I love him, and you know it; of course I
have heard frequently from dear, dear Charles."

But the guardian met her looks with a keen and chilling answer: "Why
not! why not! Does he dare to write to you, and you to love him? Oh,
that I had told them both a year ago! But where is he now, child? Don't
cry, I will not speak so angrily again, my Emmy."

"I hardly dare to tell you, dearest sir: you have always been as a
father to me, and I never knew any other; but there are things I cannot
explain to myself, and I was very wretched; and so, kind guardian,
Charles--Charles was so good--"

"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