As he did so, she leaned heavily against him, while her eyes ran eagerly over the table.
Two or three times she tried to speak, but was unable to articulate.
"What can I say to you, love ?" Her father spoke in a low, sad, tender voice, that to her was prophetic of the worst.
"Is there a letter for me ?" she asked, in a husky whisper.
"No, dear." He felt her whole frame quiver as if shocked.
"You have heard from Mr.Lyon ?" She asked this after the lapse of a few moments, raising herself up as she spoke, and assuming a calmness of exterior that was little in accord with the tumult within.
"Yes.

I have three letters of different dates." "And none for me ?" "None." "Has he not mentioned my name ?" A moment Mr.Markland hesitated, and then answered-- "Yes." He saw a slight, quick flush mantle her face, that grew instantly pale again.
"Will you read to me what he says ?" "If you wish me to do so." Mr.Markland said this almost mechanically.
"Read it." And as her father took from the table a letter, Fanny grasped his arm tightly, and then stood with the immovable rigidity of a statue.

She had already prophesied the worst.

The cold, and, to her, cruel words, were like chilling ice-drops on her heart.

She listened to the end, and then, with a low cry, fell against her father, happily unconscious of further suffering.