whose clear light I now serenely walk. But,
at that time, it seemed all a bitter loss—a
darkness haunted by dim ghosts of the past.

"Where's Letty?" said Mark one evening,
as he drew the candle towards him, and
opened the family Bible, preparatory to his
usual reading.

"I've not seen her since six o'clock,"
answered Grace. "Probably she is up-stairs;"
and going to the foot of the staircase, she
called "Letty!" twice, but there was no
reply. "Perhaps she is in the garden, or
somewhere among the ruins, looking at the
moon, as she is sometimes fond of doing,"
added Grace. So, opening the front door, she
went out, and we could hear her call her
sister several times.

"Confound the girl!" said Mark testily.
"If she can't tell the time better, I shall
forbid her going out at all of an evening."

From the first moment that she was missed,
my heart misgave me: I dreaded something
wrong and felt an instinctive certainty that
she would not be found.

Grace came back. "Letty is not outside,"
she said, looking rather scared. "Perhaps,"
she added, brightening up, as the thought
struck her, "perhaps she has gone up-stairs
tired, and has fallen asleep on the bed." So
up-stairs she went, and was away several
minutes.

Mark's impatience kept momentarily
increasing. To keep him waiting in that way!
such a thing had never been known. So
he poked the fire till he had poked half
of it out of the grate: then he snuffed the
candle till he snuffed it out, and then he fell
into a passion because he could not readily
light it; muttering and growling to himself
all the time, and evidently near explosion.
Having at length succeeded in lighting the
candle, he could contain himself no longer.
"Grace! Grace!" he called, emphasising
loudly on the floor with his stick; "come
down, and we'll go on without the hussy!"
So Grace came slowly down in answer to the
appeal, and entered the room, all white and
trembling: an open letter in her hand.

"She's gone!" said Grace, in a whisper that
ended in a sob.

"Gone! who's gone?" said Mark.

"Letty. Fled from home. I found this,"
holding up a letter, "on my pillow."

The old man sat quite still for a minute or
two, moaning feebly to himself, and staring
with blank eyes at Grace, who stood, white
and immovable as a statue, in the middle of
the floor.

"Read it, Thurston!" he said at last, speaking
with apparent effort. I took the letter
from the impassive hand of Grace, and read
as follows:

"MY DEAR,DEAR GRACE—When you read this I shall
be far from home; far from my dear father and all of
you. O Grace! my heart bleeds as I write these words
of farewell; but you will—you must forgive me when
you know all. I am going to be married. Reginald
loves me so truly, and is so kind and devoted to me,
that I should not do him justice were I to say that the
prospect of becoming his wife does not make me
happy; but alas! this parting from those that I love so
fondly is almost more than I can bear. My heart is
distracted with anguish. I hardly know what I write;
and had I not the perfect assurance of his love I should
be miserable indeed. Our marriage will have to remain
secret for a short time. Family circumstances,
Reginald says, render such a step imperative. He has
trusted his fortune into my hands; and were our
marriage to become at once known, his prospects in life
would be destroyed: his family are so proud. So we
are going to live in the utmost seclusion for a month
or two, after which everything will come right. I
shall write you again after the ceremony is over, and
send you my address: for you will write to me, won't
you, sister dear? I know your loving heart too well
to doubt you. But my father, Grace? Break it to
him gently. How will he bear it? I cannot bear to
think about it. I dare not write any more, or my
resolution will give way. God bless you all! LETTY."

"God help me!" said the old man when I
had concluded. "My own Letty to do this!
And she so like her mother!"

"Father," said Grace suddenly, "it may not
be too late to overtake her and bring her
back. Let Thurston and me go. She could
not resist me, I am sure. She cannot yet be
far on the road, and, if we can overtake her,
all may yet be well."

"Stop!" said the old man sternly, as
Grace was springing to the door. "Stop!
Of her own free will has she gone forth, and
of her own free will must she return—if she
ever return. Not a finger will I stretch
forth to bring her back. I renounce her; I
cut her off from my household; her name
shall not be remembered in my prayers. From
this day forth I have no such daughter; and
remember, girl, and thou too, Thurston, that
she has become to me as a thing that is not;
and that on this hearth which she has disgraced,
her name must never more be mentioned!
Never more! Do you understand me?
She has become the outcast of her family,
and a stranger henceforth to the home of her
childhood. And now, let us worship the
Lord."

There was that in his tone and manner
which awed both Grace and me. We had
neither words nor courage to reply.

Never did the old man read with finer
emphasis, or finer tone, the withering
denunciations of the Prophet against sinners and
backsliders than on that night; never did he
offer up a more eloquent prayer for strength
than in that hour of his tribulation. As soon
as it was over, he lighted his candle; and,
after kissing Grace with much tenderness,
and shaking me warmly by the hand, he
strode firmly across the floor, and so up-stairs,
as if to show that his spirit was unbroken.

A week, a fortnight, a month, passed away,
but brought no tidings from Letty. She was
like one removed from us by death. Although,
after the night of her departure, her name
was never mentioned in the old man's