suddenly to break off their conference, admitting, in the secrecy of her
own mind, that, if an opportunity were again to occur, it might not again
be shunned. As if that unuttered thought had power to conjure up its
object, she now became aware of a form standing in the garden, at a short
distance from the window where she sat. The dusk had deepened, during
Ellen's abstraction, to such a degree, that the man's features were not
perfectly distinguishable; but the maiden was not long in doubt of his
identity, for he approached, and spoke in the same low tone in which he
had addressed her when they stood by the stream.

"Do you still refuse my request, when its object is but your own good, and
that of one who should be most dear to you?" he asked.

Ellen's first impulse had been to cry out for assistance; her second was
to fly: but, rejecting both these measures, she determined to remain,
endeavoring to persuade herself that she was safe. The quivering of her
voice, however, when she attempted to reply, betrayed her apprehensions.

"I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger," she said. "If you
bring news from--from my father, why is it not told to Dr. Melmoth?"

"Because what I have to say is for your ear alone," was the reply; "and if
you would avoid misfortune now, and sorrow hereafter, you will not refuse
to hear me."

"And does it concern my father?" asked Ellen, eagerly.

"It does--most deeply," answered the stranger.

She meditated a moment, and then replied, "I will not refuse, I will hear