that they met in private, where there was less restraint than in our presence. Many circumstances, which I noticed but little at the time—for I deemed her heart as open as her angelic countenance—have since arisen on my memory, to convince me of their private understanding. But I need not detail them—the fact speaks for itself. She vanished from her father’s house—Varney disappeared at the same time—and this very day I have seen her in the character of his paramour, living in the house of his sordid dependent Foster, and visited by him, muffled, and by a secret entrance.”
“And this, then, is the cause of your quarrel? Methinks, you should have been sure that the fair lady either desired or deserved your interference.”
“Mine host,” answered Tressilian, “my father, such I must ever consider Sir Hugh Robsart, sits at home straggling with his grief, or, if so far recovered, vainly attempting to drown, in the praetice of his field-sports, the recollection that he had once a daughter—a recollection which ever and anon breaks from him under circumstances the most pathetic. I could not brook the idea that he should live in misery, and Amy in guilt; and I endeavoured to seek her out, with the hope of inducing her to return to her family. I have found her, and when I have either succeeded in my attempt, or have found it altogether unavailing, it is my purpose to embark for the Virginia voyage.”
“Be not so rash, good sir,” replied Giles Gosling; “and cast not yourself away because a woman—to be brief—is a woman, and changes her lovers
