It was a letter that gave little hope of mercy, and Ellen Carley felt that it was so.

She saw that there were no two sides to the question: she must save her father by the utter sacrifice of her own feelings, or suffer him to perish.
She sat for some minutes in silence, with Sir David's letter in her hand, staring blankly at the lines in a kind of stupor; while her father ate cold roast-beef and pickled-cabbage--she wondered how he could eat at such a time--looking up at her furtively every now and then.
At last she laid down the letter, and lifted her eyes to his face.

A deadly whiteness and despair had come over the bright soubrette beauty, and even William Carley's hard nature was moved a little by the altered expression of his daughter's countenance.
"It must be as you wish, father," she said slowly; "there is no help for it; I cannot see you brought to disgrace.

Stephen Whitelaw must have the price he asks for his money." "That's a good lass," cried the bailiff, springing up and clasping his daughter in his arms, a most unusual display of affection on his part; "that's bravely spoken, Nell, and you never need repent the choice that'll make you mistress of Wyncomb Farm, with a good home to give your father in his old age." The girl drew herself hastily from his embrace, and turned away from him with a shudder.

He was her father, and there was something horrible in the idea of his disgrace; but there was very little affection for him in her mind.