blush overspread her cheeks.

The curate understood her, and was moved.

"Dear friend," said he, "will you intrust this charge to myself? You
know how Evelyn is endeared to me by certain recollections! Perhaps,
better than you, I may be enabled silently to examine if this man be
worthy of her, and one who could secure her happiness; perhaps, better
than you I may ascertain the exact nature of her own feelings towards
him; perhaps, too, better than you I may effect an understanding with
Lord Vargrave."

"You are always my kindest friend," said the lady, with emotion; "how
much I already owe you! what hopes beyond the grave! what--"

"Hush!" interrupted the curate, gently; "your own good heart and pure
intentions have worked out your own atonement--may I hope also your own
content? Let us return to our Evelyn. Poor child! how unlike this
despondent letter to her gay light spirits when with us! We acted for
the best; yet perhaps we did wrong to yield her up to strangers. And
this Maltravers--with her enthusiasm and quick susceptibilities to
genius, she was half prepared to imagine him all she depicts him to be.
He must have a spell in his works that I have not discovered, for at
times it seems to operate even on you."

"Because," said Lady Vargrave, "they remind me of _his_ conversation,
_his_ habits of thought. If like _him_ in other things, Evelyn may
indeed be happy!"

"And if," said the curate, curiously,--"if now that you are free, you