THE APPOINTED HOUR—THE SCHEMERS AND THE PLOT.

 

"And here comes my dear brother," exclaimed Mary Ashwoode, joyously², as she ran to welcome the young man, now entering her father's room, in which, for more than an hour previously³, she had been sitting. Throwing her arm round his neck, and looking sweetly in his face, she continued—"You will stay with us this evening, dear Harry—do, for my sake—you won't refuse—it is so long since we have had you;" and though she spoke⁴ with a gay look and a gladsome voice, a sense of real solitariness⁵ called a tear to her dark eye.

 

"No, Mary—not this evening," said the young man coldly; "I must be in town again to-night, and before I go must have some conversation upon business with my father, so that I may not see you again till morning."

 

"But, dear Henry," said she, still clinging affectionately to his arm, "you have been in such danger, and I knew nothing of it until after you went out this morning: are you quite well, Henry?—you were not hurt—were you?"

 

"No, no—nothing—nothing—I never was better," said he, impatiently.

 

"Well, brother—dear brother," she continued imploringly⁶, "come early home to-night—do not be upon the road late—won't you promise?"

 

"There, there, there," said he rudely, "run away—take your work, or your book, or whatever it may be, down stairs; your father wants to speak with me alone," and so saying, he turned pettishly⁷ from her.

 

His habitual⁸ coldness and carelessness of manner had never before seemed so ungracious. The poor girl felt her heart

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