her, assuring her she did not feel so ill or as unhappy as she
should have done had she been alone. Anxious as she was, Ellen would not
arouse her aunt, but at the first break of day she softly entered the
housekeeper's room, and succeeded in arousing without alarming her,
informed her of Emmeline's restless state, and implored her to send at
once for Mr. Maitland. Hastily rising, Ellis accompanied Ellen to her
cousin's room, and instantly decided on complying with her request. The
household were already on the alert, and a servant was speedily
despatched; but, relieved as she was on this point, Ellen would not
comply with the good housekeeper's request to repose herself for a few
hours; she had resolved not to relinquish her post by the bedside of the
young sufferer to any save her aunt herself. Ellis desisted, for a word
from her favourite, almost her darling, as Ellen from many circumstances
had become, was to her always sufficient.

Mrs. Hamilton and Mr. Maitland met at Emmeline's door, to the
astonishment and at first alarm of the former--an alarm which subsided
into comparative relief, as she listened to Ellen's hurried tale,
although anxiety to a very high degree remained, and with some reason,
for Ellen's fears were not unfounded. Emmeline's fever rapidly and
painfully increased, and for a week her parents hung over her couch
almost despairing of her recovery; their fond hearts almost breaking, as
they heard her sweet voice, in the wild accent of delirious intervals,
calling aloud on Arthur, and beseeching their consent and blessing to
restore her to health; and scarcely less painful was it in her lucid
hours to see her clasp her mother's hands repeatedly, and murmur, in a
voice almost inarticulate from weakness--

"Do not be anxious or grieved for me, my own dear mamma, I shall soon
get well, and be your happy Emmeline again. I cannot be miserable, when
I have you and papa and Ellen to love me so tenderly," and then, she
would cling to her mother's neck, and kiss her till she would sink to
sleep upon her bosom, as in infancy and childhood she had so often done;
and dearer than ever did that gentle girl become, in these hours of
suffering, to all who had loved her so fondly before; they had deemed it
almost impossible that affection could in any way be increased, and yet
it was so. Strange must be that heart which can behold a being such as
Emmeline cling to it, as if its protection and its love were now all
that bound her to earth, and still remain unmoved and cold. Affection is
ever strengthened by dependence--dependence at least like this; and
there was something peculiarly touching in Emmeline's present state of
mental weakness. Her parents felt, as they gazed on her, that they had
occasioned the anguish which had prostrated her on a bed of sickness;
and yet their child clung to them as if, in the intensity of her
affection for them, and theirs for her, she would strive to forget her
unhappy love, and be once more happy.

Time rolled heavily by, and some few weeks passed, ere Emmeline was
sufficiently convalescent to leave her room, and then her pallid
features and attenuated form were such constant and evident proofs of
that mental as well as bodily fever, that Mrs. Hamilton could not look
on her without pain. She was still inwardly restless and uneasy, though
evidently struggling for cheerfulness, and Mr. Maitland, to whom some
necessary particulars of her tale had been told, gave as his opinion,
that some secret anxiety still rested on her mind, which would be much
better removed; the real cause of that solicitude her parents very
easily penetrated. Mr. Hamilton, fearing the effects of excitement in
her still very delicate state, had refrained from telling her all he had
accomplished in young Myrvin's favour during her sickness, but on
hearing Mr. Maitland's report, her parents both felt assured it was for
that information she pined, and therefore determined on instantly giving
her relief.

It was with the utmost tenderness and caution Mr. Hamilton alluded to
the subject, and seating himself by her couch, playfully asked her if
she would promise him to get well the sooner, if he gratified her by the
pleasing intelligence that Arthur Myrvin's character was cleared, that
his enemy had been discovered, his designs exposed, and himself obliged
to leave the village, and the whole population were now as violently
prejudiced in Arthur's favour, as they had formerly been against him;
provoked also with themselves for their blind folly in receiving and
encouraging the idle reports propagated against him, not one of which
they now perceived were sufficiently well founded to stand before an
impartial statement and accurate examination.

Had her parents doubted what had weighed on Emmeline's mind, the sudden
light beaming in those saddened eyes, the flush kindling on those pale
cheeks, the rapid movement with which she caught her father's hand, and
looked in his face, as if fearful he would deceive her, all these minute
but striking circumstances must have betrayed the truth. In a voice
almost inarticulate from powerful emotion, she implored him to tell her
every particular, and tenderly he complied.

He had followed, he said, her advice, and confronted Nurse Langford with
the unprincipled man who had dared accuse a fellow-creature of a crime
in reality committed by himself, and reckless as he was, he had shrunk
in guilt and shame before her accusation, which was indeed the
accusation of the dying, and avowing himself the real perpetrator of the
sin, offered her a large bribe for secrecy, which, as might be expected,
the widow indignantly refused. It was easy to perceive, his arts had
worked on the old woman, Mary's grandmother, to believe him her friend
and Arthur her foe; the poor old creature's failing intellect assisted
his plans, while the reports he had insidiously circulated against the
unfortunate young man also confirmed his tale. Little aware that the
Widow Langford had been almost a mother to the poor girl his villainy
had ruined, and that she was likely to have heard the truth, being quite
unconscious she had attended her dying moments, he published this
falsehood, without any feeling of remorse or shame, hoping by so doing,
effectually to serve his employers, effect the disgrace of Myrvin, and
completely screen himself. Mrs. Langford now found it was time indeed
for her to come forward and perform her promise to Emmeline by proving
young Myrvin's innocence, but hesitated how to commence. She was
therefore both relieved and pleased at the entrance and inquiries of Mr.
Hamilton, and promised to obey his directions faithfully, only imploring
him to clear Mr. Myrvin's character, and expel Farmer Jefferies from the
village, which, from the time of his settling there, she said, had been
one scene of anarchy and confusion; frankly avowing, in answer to a
question of Mr. Hamilton, that it was for Miss Emmeline's sake she was
so anxious; she was sure she was interested in Mr. Myrvin's fate, and
therefore she had mentioned the unhappy fate of poor Mary Brookes, to
prove to her the young man had attended to his duty. Many other
startling proofs of Jefferies' evil conduct had the good widow, by
silent but watchful attention, been enabled to discover, as also
convincing evidence that the young curate had not been so neglectful or
faulty as he had been reported. All her valuable information she now
imparted to her master, to be used by him in any way his discretion
might point out, promising to be ever ready at the slightest notice to
prove all she had alleged. Mr. Hamilton carefully examined every
circumstance, reflected for a brief period on his mode of action, and
finally, assembling all the principal inhabitants around him, in the
public school-room of the village, laid before them all the important
facts he had collected, and besought their impartial judgment. He owned,
he said, that he too had been prejudiced against Mr. Myrvin, whose
life, while among them, many circumstances had combined to render
unhappy, but that now, he heartily repented his injustice, for he felt
convinced the greater part of what had been alleged against him was
false. Those evil reports he proved had all originated from the
machinations of Jefferies, and he implored them to consider whether they
could still regard the words of one, against whom so much evil had now
been proved, as they had formerly done, or could they really prove that
their young curate had in truth been guilty of the misdemeanours with
which he had been charged.

Mr. Howard, who was present, seconded his words, acknowledging that he
too had been prejudiced, and adding, that he could not feel satisfied
till he had avowed this truth, and asked his young friend's pardon for
the injury he had done him.

Nothing is more sudden and complete than changes in popular feeling. The
shameful act of Jefferies, in casting on the innocent the stigma of
shame and crime which was his own, was quite enough for the honest and
simple villagers. At once they condemned themselves (which perhaps they
might not have been quite so ready to do, had not Mr. Hamilton and their
rector shown them the example), and not only defended and completely
exculpated Myrvin, but in an incredibly short space of time, so many
anecdotes of the young man's performance of his duty were collected,
that had not Mr. Hamilton been aware of the violent nature of popular
feeling, those defects which still remained, though excused by the
recollection of the mental tortures Myrvin had been enduring, would
undoubtedly have departed, as entirely as every darker shade on his
character had done.

Convinced that Arthur's attention to parochial affairs, as well as his
conduct in other matters, had been very opposite to that which had been
reported, neither Mr. Howard nor Mr. Hamilton could feel satisfied till
they had written to him, frankly avowing their injustice, and asking his
pardon and forgetfulness of the past, and assuring him that, if his
conduct continued equally worthy of approbation as it was at the present
time, he should ever find in them sincere and active friends.

Mr. Hamilton felt he had much, very much to say to the young man; but in
what manner to word it he was somewhat perplexed. He could not speak of
his daughter, and yet Myrvin's conduct towards her had created a feeling
of gratitude and admiration which he could not suppress. Many fathers
would have felt indignation only at the young man's presumption, but Mr.
Hamilton was neither so unreasonable nor so completely devoid of
sympathy. It was he himself, he thought, who had acted imprudently in
allowing him to associate so intimately with his daughters, not the
fault of the sufferer. Myrvin had done but his duty indeed, but Mr.
Hamilton knew well there were very few young men who would have acted as
he had done, when conscious that his affection was returned with all the
enthusiasm and devotedness of a disposition such as Emmeline's. How few
but would have played with those feelings, tortured her by persuasions
to forget duty for the sake of love; but Arthur had not done this, and
the father's heart swelled towards him in gratitude and esteem; even
while he knew the hopelessness of his love, he felt for the anguish
which his sympathy told him Arthur must endure. After more deliberation
and thought than he could have believed necessary for such a simple
thing as to write a letter, Mr. Hamilton did achieve his object,
retaining a copy of his epistle, to prove to his child he had been
earnest in his assurances that Arthur's character should be cleared.
Painfully agitated by the tale she had heard, and this unexpected
confidence of her father, Emmeline glanced her eye over the paper, and
read as follows:--


"_To the Rev. Arthur Myrvin, Hanover_.

"MY DEAR MYRVIN.--You will be no doubt astonished at receiving this
letter, brief as I intend it to be, from one with whom you parted in no
very friendly terms, and who has, I grieve to own, given you but little
reason to believe me your friend. When a man has been unjust and
prejudiced, it becomes his peremptory duty, however pride may rebel, to
do all in his power to atone for it by an honourable reparation, both in
word and deed, towards him he may have injured. Such, my young friend,
is at present our relative position, and I am at a loss to know how best
to express my sense of your honourable conduct and my own injustice,
which occasioned a degree of harshness in my manner towards you when we
separated, which, believe me, I now recall both with regret and pain.
Circumstances have transpired in the parish once under your care, which
have convinced not only me, but all those still more violently
prejudiced against you, that your fair fame was tarnished