"No is she?" replied Philip.

"Yes; his wife is ill."

The universal feeling was that something was amiss, and mamma was in the secret. Amy looked wistfully at her, but Mrs. Edmonstone only gazed at the window, and so they continued for some minutes, while an uninteresting exchange of question and answer was kept up between her and her nephew until at length the dressing-bell rang, and cleared the room. Mrs. Edmonstone lingered till her son and daughters were gone, and said,--

"You have heard from St. Mildred"s?"

"Yes," said Philip, as if he was as little inclined to be communicative to her as to his cousins.

"From Guy, or from Margaret?"

"From Margaret."

"But you say there is a letter from him?"

"Yes, for my uncle."

"Does she say nothing more satisfactory?" asked his aunt, her anxiety tortured by his composure. "Has she learnt no more?"

"Nothing more of his proceedings. I see Amy knows nothing of the matter?"

"No; her papa thought there was no need to distress her till we had seen whether he could explain."

"Poor little thing!" said Philip; "I am very sorry for her.

Mrs. Edmonstone did not choose to discuss her daughter"s affairs with him, and she turned the conversation to ask if Margaret said much of Guy.

"She writes to tell the spirit in which he received my uncle"s letter.

It is only the Morville temper, again, and, of course, whatever you may think of that on Amy"s account, I should never regard it, as concerns myself, as other than his misfortune. I hope he may be able to explain the rest."

"Ah! there comes your uncle!" and Mr. Edmonstone entered.

"How d"ye do, Philip? Brought better news, eh?"

"Here is a letter to speak for itself."

"Eh? From Guy? Give it me. What does he say? Let me see. Here, mamma, read it; your eyes are best."

Mrs. Edmonstone read as follows:--

"MY DEAR MR. EDMONSTONE,--Your letter surprised and grieved me very much. I cannot guess what proofs Philip may think he has, of what I never did, and, therefore, I cannot refute them otherwise than by declaring that I never gamed in my life. Tell me what they are, and I will answer them. As to a full confession, I could of course tell you of much in which I have done wrongly, though not in the way which he supposes. On that head, I have nothing to confess. I am sorry I am prevented from satisfying you about the 1OOO, but I am bound in honour not to mention the purpose for which I wanted it. I am sure you could never believe I could have said what I did to Mrs. Edmonstone if I had begun on a course which I detest from the bottom of my heart. Thank you very much for the kindness of the latter part of your letter. I do not know how I could have borne it, if it had ended as it began. I hope you will soon send me these proofs of Philip"s. Ever your affectionate, "G.

M."

Not a little surprised was Philip to find that he was known to be Guy"s accuser; but the conclusion revealed that his style had betrayed him, and that Mr. Edmonstone had finished with some mention of him, and he resolved that henceforth he would never leave a letter of his own dictation till he had seen it signed and sealed.

"Well!" cried Mr. Edmonstone, joyfully beating his own hand with his glove, "that is all right. I knew it would be so. He can"t even guess what we are at. I am glad we did not tease poor little Amy. Eh, mamma?--eh, Philip?" the last eh being uttered much more doubtfully, and less triumphantly than the first.

"I wonder you think it right," said Philip.

"What more would you have?" said Mr. Edmonstone, hastily.

"Confidence."

"Eh? Oh, ay, he says he can"t tell--bound in honour."

"It is easy to write off-hand, and say I cannot satisfy you, I am bound in honour; but that is not what most persons would think a full justification, especially considering the terms on which you stand."

"Why, yes, he might have said more. It would have been safe enough with me."

"It is his usual course of mystery, reserve, and defiance."

"The fact is," said Mr. Edmonstone, turning away, "that it is a very proper letter; right sense, proper feeling--and if he never gamed in his life, what would you have more?"

"There are different ways of understanding such a denial as this," said Philip. "See, he says not in the way in which I suppose." He held up his hand authoritatively, as his aunt was about to interpose. "It was against gaming that his vow was made. I never thought he had played, but he never says he has not betted."

"He would never be guilty of a subterfuge!" exclaimed Mr. Edmonstone, indignantly.

"I should not have thought so, without the evidence of the payment of the cheque, my uncle had just given him, to this gambling fellow," said Philip; "yet it is only the natural consequence of the habit of eluding inquiry into his visits to London."

"I can"t see any reason for so harsh an accusation," said she.

"I should hardly want more reason than his own words. He refuses to answer the question on which my uncle"s good opinion depends; he owns he has been to blame, and thus retracts his full denial. In my opinion, his letter says nothing so plainly as, "While I can stand fair with you I do not wish to break with you.""

"He will not find that quite so easy." cried Mr. Edmonstone. "I am no fool to be hoodwinked, especially where my little Amy is concerned. I"ll see all plain and straight before he says another word of her. But you see what comes of their settling it while I was out of the way."

Mrs. Edmonstone was grieved to see him so hurt at this. It could not have been helped, and if all had been smooth, he never would have thought of it again; but it served to keep up his dignity in his own eyes, and, as he fancied, to defend him from Philip"s censure, and he therefore made the most of it, which so pained her that she did not venture to continue her championship of Guy.

"Well, well," said Mr. Edmonstone, "the question is what to do next--eh, Philip?" I wish he would have spoken openly. I hate mysteries. I"ll write and tell him this won"t do; he must be explicit--eh, Philip?"

"We will talk it over by and by," said Philip.

His aunt understood that it was to be in her absence, and left the room, fearing it would be impossible to prevent Amy from being distressed, though she had no doubt that Guy would be able to prove his innocence of the charges. She found Amy waiting for her in her room.

"Don"t, ring, mamma, dear. I"ll fasten your dress," said she; then pausing--"Oh! mamma, I don"t know whether I ought to ask, but if you would only tell me if there is nothing gone wrong."

"I don"t believe there is anything really wrong, my dear," said Mrs.

Edmonstone, kissing her, as she saw how her colour first deepened and then faded.

"Oh! no," said she.

"But there is some mystery about his money-matters, which has vexed your papa."

"And what has Philip to do with it?"

"I cannot quite tell, my dear. I believe Margaret Henley has heard something, but I do not know the whole."

"Did you see his letter, mamma? said Amy, in a low, trembling voice.