Emmeline's voice had at first trembled audibly, but seeming to derive courage from her sister and brother's accompaniment, which, from their knowledge of music, was so beautifully modulated as to permit her sweet voice to be heard above all, and every word clearly distinguished, it became firmer and more earnest as she continued, till she forgot every thing but the subject of her song. For full a minute there was silence as she ceased, but with an irresistible impulse Mr. Hamilton rose from his seat, and, as Emmeline left her harp, he clasped her in his arms.

"How can I thank you, my Emmeline, and all my children, for this fond greeting?" he exclaimed, with more emotion than he generally permitted to be visible. "Where could you find such appropriate words? What! tears, my little girl," he added, as, completely overcome by the excitement of her song and her father's praise, Emmeline most unexpectedly burst into tears. "What business have they to come when you have given your parents nothing but pleasure? Drive them away, love; what! still no smile? We must appeal to mamma's influence, then, to explain and soothe them."

"Where did you get them, Tiny? explain, for I am positively faint from curiosity," comically demanded Percy, as Emmeline, breaking from her father, sat down on her favorite stool at her mother's feet, and hid her face in her lap. Mrs. Hamilton laid her hand caressingly on those soft curls, but, though she smiled, she did not speak.

"She will not tell, and you will none of you guess," said Caroline, laughing.

"You are in the secret, so out with it," said Edward.

"Not I; I am pledged to silence."

"Mother, dear, tell us for pity," pleaded Herbert.

"I can only guess, for I am not in her confidence, I assure you," she replied, in the same playful tone, and raising Emmeline's lowered head, she looked a moment in those conscious eyes. "Dictated by my Emmeline's affectionate little heart, they were found in this pretty shape, in the recesses of her own fanciful brain—is not that it, dearest?"

"There, Emmy, I knew mamma would find it out, however we might be silent," said Caroline, triumphantly, as her sister's face was again concealed.

"Emmeline turned poet! Angels and ministers of grace defend me! I must hide my diminished head!" spouted Percy. "I thought at least I might retain my crown as the poet of the family, and to be rivaled by you—a light-footed fawn—wild gazelle—airy sprite—my especial Tiny! it is unbearable!"

"But we must all thank you, notwithstanding, Emmy," continued Herbert.

"Ah, but I have very little to do with it; the arrangement of the words to the air, and the accompaniment, are Caroline's; I could not have done that," said Emmeline; her tears changed to her most joyous smiles.

Percy and his father turned directly to Caroline, the former with a Sir Charles Grandison's bow, the other with a most affectionate kiss; and her mother looked at her with such an expression of gratified pleasure, that she could not help acknowledging to herself, such pure enjoyment was not to be found in the praise and admiration of strangers.

"Now, Emmeline, you have still a mystery to explain," said Edward. "Why did you not own your offspring, instead of, by silence, almost denying them?"

"And here I really can not help you," answered Mrs. Hamilton; "I can not imagine why my Emmy should conceal a fact that could only give pleasure to us all."

"I think I know," said Ellen, timidly; "Emmeline was thinking of all you said about controlling an impulse, and not always encouraging that which she termed inspiration, and perhaps she thought you did not quite approve of her writing, and so wished to conceal it."

"How could you guess so exactly, Ellen?" hastily answered Emmeline, forgetting, in her surprise at her cousin's penetration, that she betrayed herself.

"Because I should have felt the same," said Ellen, simply.

"Then I must have explained myself very badly, my dear children, or you must have both misunderstood me. I did not mean you to neglect such on enjoyment as poetry, but only to keep it in its proper sphere, and not allow it to take the place of resources, equally intellectual, but which have and may still cost you more patience and labor. Poetry is a dangerous gift, my dear child; but as long as you bring it to the common treasury of Home, and regard it merely as a recreation, only to be enjoyed when less attractive duties and studies are completed, you have my full permission to cultivate—and try, by the study of our best authors, and whatever other help I can obtain for you, to improve yourself in it. No talent that is lent us should be thrown aside, my Emmeline; our only care must be, not—by loving and pursuing it too intensely—to abuse it; but I must not lecture you any longer, or Percy's patience will fail; I see he has placed Miss Harcourt already at the piano, and Edward and Caroline are ready for their waltz."

"And so I transform one Muse into another," exclaimed Percy, who, in his sister's absorbed attention, had neared her unobserved, and catching her round the waist, bore her to the upper end of the room, and a minute afterward she was enjoying her waltz, with as much childish glee, as if neither poetry nor reflection could have any thing to do with her.

"Why is poetry a dangerous gift, dear aunt?" inquired Ellen, who had listened earnestly to all Mrs. Hamilton had said.

"Because, my love, it is very apt to excite and encourage an over-excess of feeling; gives a habit of seeing things other than they really are, and engenders a species of romantic enthusiasm, most dangerous to the young, especially of our sex, whose feelings generally require control and repression, even when not joined to poetry. To a well-regulated mind and temper, the danger is not of the same serious kind as to the irregulated, but merely consists in the powerful temptation it too often presents to neglect duties and employments of more consequence, for its indulgence. There is a species of fascination in the composition of even the most inferior poetry, which urges its pursuit, as giving so little trouble, compared to the perseverance necessary for music and drawing, and such a vast amount of pleasure, that it is difficult to withdraw from it. This is still more strongly the case when the young first become conscious of the gift, as Emmeline is now. As she gets older, and her taste improves, she will not be satisfied with her efforts, unless they are very superior to the present, and the trouble she will take in correcting and improving, will remove a great deal of the too dangerous fascination attending it now; still I am not anxious, while she retains her confidence in my affection and experience, and will so control the enjoyment, as not to permit its interference with her other more serious employments."

Ellen listened eagerly, and they continued conversing on many similar topics of interest and improvement, till the prayer bell rang, and startled her into the recollection that she had always retired nearly an hour before, and so had avoided entering the library, which she still quite shrunk from. Percy stopped his dance, which he had converted from a waltz into a most inspiring gallopade, the last importation, he declared, from Almack's; Miss Harcourt closed the piano; and Herbert paused in his conversation with his father. Nothing like gloom ever marked the signal for the hour of devotion, but lighter pleasures always ceased a few minutes before, that they might better realize the more serious thought and service.

Mrs. Hamilton had never ceased to regret the disgrace she had inflicted on Ellen, in not permitting her to retain her own place with the family, at least in the hours of devotion, for it seemed more difficult to remove that impression than any of her other trials. Returning her niece's startled look with one of the sincerest affection, she said—

"You will remain with us to-night, my dear Ellen, will you not?"

"If you wish it, aunt."

"I do wish it, dearest, most earnestly. It is so long since I have had the happiness of seeing all my children round me in this solemn hour, and till you join us, I can not feel quite sure that you have indeed forgiven an act of severity, which, could I but have suspected the truth, I should never have inflicted."

"Forgiven!—you!" repeated Ellen, in utter astonishment, but rising instantly. "Aunt Emmeline, dear aunt Emmeline, pray, do not speak so; why did you not tell me your wish before? I would have conquered my own disinclination to enter the library, weeks ago; indeed, indeed, it only seemed associated with my own guilt and misery."

Mrs. Hamilton drew her arm fondly in hers, refusing for her the aid of either of the young men, who had all hastened toward her, and led her herself to the library, and to her usual place beside Emmeline. Many an eager but respectful look of affectionate admiration was directed toward her by the assembled household, the greater part of whom had not seen her since the night of Edward's confession; and the alteration in her appearance, the universal sympathy which her dangerous illness and its cause had called forth, even in the humblest and most ignorant—for it is the heart, not the mind, which is required for the comprehension of self-devotion—her very youth seeming to increase its magnitude, had inspired such a feeling of love, that could she have known it, would have prevented that painful sensation of shyness.

Many, many thoughts thronged her mind, as her uncle's impressive voice fell on her ear; thoughts which, though they prevented her following the words of the prayers, and caused the tears, spite of every effort, to stream through her slender fingers, yet turned into thankfulness and praise, ere the service ceased, that, fiery as the ordeal had been, she could still recognize a hand of love, and bless God, not only for the detection of her involuntary sin, but for every pang she had endured.

The next day was Sunday, bringing with it all sorts of quiet, sober pleasures of its own, only alloyed by the thought that it was the last day of Percy's and Herbert's visit. The following morning they started for Oxford, Mr. Hamilton and Edward intending to accompany them part of the way, and then to proceed to Ashburton, where the former had business, and then make a little tour through Plymouth home. The next day was so beautifully fine and genial, that Emmeline declared it would do Ellen the greatest possible good to go with her a few miles out of the park, to see a waterfall she had lately discovered, and which she had been longing for Ellen to see, as Caroline would not admire it as much as it deserved. Miss Harcourt accompanied them, and on their return, its beauties were described to Mrs. Hamilton in the most animating strain; Emmeline declaring the air was more deliciously fresh, the trees more green, the sky more brilliantly blue, than they had ever been before; and that the very sound of the water, as it dashed down a black rock, and threw up spray, which the rays of the sun rendered so beautifully iridescent, as to seem like a succession of rainbows, was a whole volume of poetry in itself.

"And what extraordinary vision do you think that silly cousin of mine chose to fancy she saw coming down the Ashburton road, mamma? Actually the apparitions of papa and Edward. She will persist in the fancy. Miss Harcourt and I could only see two men on horseback, at too great a distance for any identity to be recognized—but it must be their wraiths, if it be, for they had no idea of coming home to-day."

"I am sure I was not mistaken, Emmeline," said Ellen (whom her aunt now observed looked agitated and flushed); "and they were riding so fast, something very pressing must have recalled them."

"And you are frightening yourself at shadows, my dear! but indeed I think you must be mistaken, for your uncle told me, he should be particularly engaged to-day," said Mrs. Hamilton.

"She is not mistaken, though," exclaimed Caroline, who was standing at one of the windows; "for here they both are, true enough, and riding quite fast down the avenue. However, the mystery will soon be solved."

Mr. Hamilton and Edward entered almost immediately afterward, the latter evidently very much agitated, the former so tranquil and cheerful that the momentary anxiety of his wife was calmed directly. He laughed at their bewilderment, and said that an important letter had reached him at Ashburton, summoning him to Plymouth, and so he thought he would just see how all was going on at Oakwood first. This was not at all a satisfactory reason from Mr. Hamilton. Edward evidently tried to answer Ellen's inquiries quietly, but he could not, and exclaiming, "You tell her, my dear uncle! I can not," ran out of the room. Mr. Hamilton instantly changed his jesting manner, so far as quietly and affectionately to seat his niece beside him, and tell her, cautiously and kindly, the real cause of their unexpected return. Orders had been sent to the Sea Queen, to sail much sooner than was expected, and therefore he had deferred his business, and returned with Edward directly.

"It is a trial, my dear Ellen, a very hard one just now, under all circumstances; but I am sure you will bear it with fortitude, for Edward's sake. The only drawback to his happiness in being again permitted to follow his profession, is the thought of the trial, it will be to you."

"But when must we part? When must he leave Oakwood?" was all poor Ellen could ask; but in such a tone of quiet sorrow, her uncle could not for the moment reply.

"The Sea Queen leaves Plymouth, wind permitting, the end of the week, but—Edward must be on board to-morrow."

A low cry escaped involuntarily from Ellen's lips, as she buried her face on the cushion of the couch where she was sitting, and an exclamation of surprise and regret broke from all. Mrs. Hamilton felt it almost as much as Ellen, from not only her own unspoken anxiety, as to whether indeed his home influence would save him from temptation in future, but that she could enter into every thought and feeling which in Ellen must so aggravate the actual parting—always a sorrow in itself. After a few minutes Ellen raised her head, and, though her cheek was perfectly colorless, every tear was checked.

"Tell Edward he need not fear my weakness, dear Emmeline," she said, trying hard to speak quite calmly. "Only beg him to come to me, that we may spend the little time we have together; I will be as cheerful as himself." And, effort as it was, she kept her word; so controlling sorrow, to enter into his naturally glad anticipations, that her brother felt as if he could not love, nor venerate her enough.

He was obliged to leave Oakwood (accompanied by his uncle) so early the next morning, that all his preparations had to be completed by that night. Ellis's activity, though she could not endure the idea of his going, speedily and satisfactorily settled that matter. Robert Langford, who had only regained his natural light-heartedness since Ellen had taken her usual place in the family, always declaring his carelessness had been the origin of all her misery, was another so active in his service, that Edward had only to give a hint of any thing he wanted, even if it could only be procured at some distance, and it was instantly obtained.

The hours wore on, the evening devotions were concluded, but still the family lingered in the library: so many things there seemed to say, for Mr. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt would not let the conversation flag, and Edward would talk and laugh, as if he were only going from home for a few days. Midnight chimed, but still Mrs. Hamilton felt as if she could not give the signal for separation: but when one struck, there was a general start, and an unanimous declaration it could not be so late.

"I assure you it is," Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully said; "and poor Edward will get no sleep, if we do not separate at once. He must certainly send you a box of artificial roses, for this unusual dissipation will bear all the natural ones away. Ellen, love, I must be cruel enough to resist that pleading look; remember, your full strength has not yet returned."

She spoke kindly, but firmly, and there was a general move. Edward laughingly promised to send his cousins the very best box of rouge he could procure at Plymouth, and wished them good night as gayly as if they should meet as usual the next morning. Once only his voice faltered—"Ellen, love, good night! My own sister, God in Heaven bless you!" were all he said, the last sentence escaping as if involuntarily, as if he had merely meant to say good night; and for more than a minute the brother and sister were clasped in each other's arms. There were tears in Mrs. Hamilton's eyes, and her husband's were most unwontedly dim, for words were not needed to reveal to them the trial of that moment to those two young hearts. To Ellen's especially, for her lot was woman's—to endure until time should prove the reality of Edward's resolution, and mark him indeed the noble character his disposition so fondly promised. His was active service, the banishment of thought by deed. Breaking from her brother, and not daring to address either her aunt or uncle, lest her control should fail her too soon, Ellen hastened from the room.

"Go to her, aunt Emmeline; oh, tell her I will never, never cause her to suffer again!" implored Edward, as soon as he could speak, and clasping his aunt's hand. "She has been struggling with herself the whole evening for my sake, and she will suffer for it to-morrow, unless she give it vent, and she will weep less painfully if you speak of comfort."

"She will be better alone a little while, my dear boy; young as she is, she knows where to seek and find comfort, and her tears would flow more freely, conscious only of the presence and healing of her God. I shall not part from you now. Ellis wanted me for some directions about your things, and I will come to you in your room afterward."

Mrs. Hamilton knew the human heart well. When she went to Ellen, the paroxysm of natural sorrow had had vent, and her sympathy, her earnestly expressed conviction that the trial of beholding error and remorse in one so beloved would not occur again, could bring comfort. The tears indeed might still have flowed the faster, perhaps, at the voice of kindness, but there was healing in them; and when her aunt left her to go to Edward, she sent him a fond message that she was better, and in a few days would be happy, quite happy, for his sake.

It was late before Mrs. Hamilton quitted her nephew. We will not repeat all that passed between them, all that that fond watchful relative so earnestly, so appealingly said. Not much in actual words of counsel had she ever before addressed to him, feeling that that duty was better performed by Mr. Howard and his uncle. She had simply tried to influence him by the power of love, of forbearance, of sympathy with his remorse, and pity for his errors. In the wretchedness, the fearful anxiety, Ellen's danger and painful illness had occasioned herself individually, she had never spoken, or even let fall a sentence which could reproach him as the cause of all; and therefore, now that she did give her anxious affection words, they were so spoken, that her nephew never forgot them.

"I feel now," he had said, near the conclusion of their interview, "as if nothing could tempt me to err again; but oh, aunt Emmeline, so I thought when I left home before; and its influences all left me as if they had never been. It may be so again and—and—are there not such doomed wretches, making all they love best most miserable?"

"Not, indeed, if they will take their home influences with them, my beloved boy. They deserted you before because, by the insidious sentiments of a most unhappy man, your religion was shaken, and you flung aside with scorn and misbelief the only safety for the young—God's most Holy Word. The influences of your home are based on that alone, my Edward. They appear perhaps to the casual observer as only love, indulgence, peace, and the joy springing from innocent and happy hearts; but these are mere flowers springing from one immortal root. In God's Word alone is our safety, there alone our strength and our joy; and that may be yours still, my boy, though far away from us, and in a little world with interests and temptations of its own. Take this little Bible; it has been my constant companion for eighteen years, and to none but to yourself would I part with it. If you fear your better feelings failing, read it, be guided by it, if at first only for the sake of those you love; I do not fear, but that very soon you will do so for its own sake. It bears a name within it which I think will ever keep it sacred in your care, as it has been in mine."

Edward opened it eagerly, "Charles Manvers!" he exclaimed; "My own sailor-uncle, whose memory you have so taught me to love. It is indeed a spell, dear aunt, and you shall never regret a gift so precious. But how came it yours?"

"He came to me just before starting for his last trip, entreating me to exchange Bibles with him, that in our most serious moments we might think of each other. It was such an unusually serious speech for him, that it seemed to thrill me with a vague forboding, which was only too soon realized. I never saw him again; and that little book indeed increased in value."

Her voice faltered, for even yet the memory of her brother was so dear to her that she could never speak of him without emotion. Edward reiterated his eager assurance that it should be equally valuable to him, adding—

"I have often had strange fancies about uncle Charles, aunt, and longed for the command of a ship, to scour the coast of Algiers, and learn something more about the Leander. Somehow or other, I never can believe he was drowned, and yet to think of him as a slave is terrible."

"And not likely, my dear boy; think of the lapse of years. But painful as it is, we must separate, Edward: I must not detain you from rest and sleep any longer. Only give me one promise—if ever you are led into temptation and error again, and it may be—for our strongest resolutions sometimes fail us—write to me without the smallest hesitation, openly, freely; tell me all, and if you need aid, ask it, and I will give it; and, if it be possible, avert your uncle's displeasure. I have no fear that, in telling you this, I am weakening your resolution, but only to prevent one fault becoming many by concealment—from dread of anger, and therein the supposed impossibility of amendment. Remember, my beloved boy, you have a claim on me which no error nor fault can remove; as, under providence, the preserver of my husband, I can never change the anxious love I bear you. You may indeed make me very miserable, but I know you will not: you will let me look on your noble deed with all the love, the admiration, it deserves. Promise me that, under any difficulty or error, small or great, you will write to me as you would have done to your own beloved mother, and I shall have no fear remaining."

Edward did promise, but his heart was so full he could not restrain himself any longer, and as Mrs. Hamilton folded him to her heart, in a silent but tearful embrace, he wept on her shoulder like a child.

CHAPTER XVI.