happiness took. And then, when he looked
up, and with quivering lips called her his
life, and his life's best angel, and uttered all
the wild transports which such a love in such
a nature would utter, she, calm and grave and
tender, would try to check him very gently;
through all this storm of feeling, herself as
calm and unimpassioned as if a bird had been
singing at her knee.

CHAPTER II.

THERE was a son belonging to the
Trevelyan family, Andrew, nominally a lawyer in
London; a married man of respectable standing
and profession, but practically a gambler
and a—sharper. Perhaps, if he had been more
wisely educated, he would have turned out
more satisfactorily, but he had been spoilt by
every kind of injudicious indulgence. His
faults had been left to grow as they would,
unchecked. Nay, in many instances they
had been even encouraged. So that it was
no wonder if the spoilt and pampered child
grew up the selfish, vicious, unrestrained man,
who knew no higher law than his own
gratification, no higher pleasure than personal
indulgence. Love for this son had been one
of Mr. Trevelyan's strongest—or weakest
—points, as one might judge. Through good
report and evil report, in spite of knowing
that his race was dishonoured, and his
name debased by his evil life, the old man
stood staunch and loving. Even when he
married that wretched woman, met with
Heaven knows how or where, but not as
Magdalen's sister should have been; even
when he sent down that villanous Jew to tell
of his arrest for a dishonoured bill, and
to demand, rather than request, enough
money to pay off this score, and set him going
again—even then, the old man only turned
pale and looked sad, but he loved his darling
boy none the less. It was his pride, his
wilful point of obstinate belief and groundless
hope, and he would not be driven from it.
He was his first-born, cradled in his arms
while the halo of romance yet shone bright
about his marriage life, and the golden cloud
of hope tinged the dim form of his future.
And Mr. Trevelyan was not a man of passing
impressions. Affection once marked on that
granite soul of his must be struck out
violently, if struck out at all; for neither time
nor the friction of small cares and petty
annoyances could destroy it; and even Andrew's
worst faults had not as yet destroyed the
sharpness of a letter.

Andrew lived on his professions of affection.
If he sent down a shameless confession
of evil passages in his evil life, he coupled
this confession with such warm assurances of
attachment, that the old man's heart failed
him for the stern place of judge, and he
became the advocate instead. How could
he not forgive one he loved so well, and
who loved him so faithfully? And what
great hope was there not yet of ultimate
reformation when that sacred filial love continued
so unchilled! After all, it was but a
youth's folly that the boy was ever guilty of.
His heart was in its right place, and all else
would come right in time. Andrew well
knew what the old man would think when he
wrote those loving dutiful letters. He used
to call them his exchequer-bills, and tell his
wife what each was worth. For he never
wrote unless he wanted money; which,
however, was frequent; and he was always sure
of something as the reward for his trouble.
So things had gone on for the last half-dozen
years; Andrew passing from bad to worse
with startling rapidity, until even the very
swindlers and scoundrels with whom he
associated grew somewhat shy of him.

One day a letter arrived to Mr. Trevelyan,
from London. It was a curious letter,
containing minute inquiries concerning his health
and habits, which he was prayed to answer
by return of post. He did answer, but not
on the points required; and a correspondence
ensued, which at last led to the information
that Andrew had been raising money on post-obits,
and that he was speculating deeply
on the probable chances of his father's death
within the next two years. This was perhaps
the only thing that could have stirred Mr.
Trevelyan, and this struck at the very root
of his love by destroying his trust. Everything
else he could forgive, and had forgiven,
but this: and this was the blow that struck
out that graven word which nothing else had
injured, and left a void and a ruin instead.

Magdalen knew nothing of what had
happened. She was terrified to see how pale her
father was, while reading a certain letter in a
strange hand, the contents of which she did
not know; and how he suddenly drooped, as
if struck by some fatal disease. She asked
him if anything had happened to vex him, but
all he answered was, "No, child, nothing that
you can cure," looking sadly on the ground
as he spoke. He folded up the letter
carefully, and, in his precise manner, put it away
among other papers in his drawer; and the
matter seemed to be forgotten, or to have
passed like any other small disturbance. But
Magdalen understood him too well not to see
that there was a painful secret somewhere,
one that nothing of her love could touch, nor
his own philosophy cure. More than once
she approached the subject gently, for she
knew that it was somehow connected with
her brother; but he never answered her
questions, and at last got angry with her if
she mentioned Andrew's name. It was very
painful for poor Magdalen to see her father
breaking his heart thus in silence, without
suffering her to sympathise with him; for
she thought, woman-like, that love and
sympathy would surely lighten his burden, whatever
it might be!  But he kept his own
counsel, strictly, and Magdalen could only
guess the direction, while ignorant of the
details of his sorrow.