We are now going to relate an event, in which our heroine had need of all the exertion and fortitude which the education she had received had so forcibly inculcated. Her mother's grave was always an object of attention to her; and though no pompous monument adorned the place, or flattering eulogy appeared on the simple stone which stood at its head (her name, and age, with the date of the year in which she died, being all that was engraved there), Anna regarded it with interest, because it was all she had ever known of her parent; and never passed it without reflecting on her birth, and thinking of her father; and it was on this very spot she was destined to meet him, whom she had so often wished to hear of, and who for twenty years had made no inquiry after her.

She was one autumnal evening walking through the church-yard rather later than usual, and alone; having left Betty, who had come out with her, at her father's, to assist in preparing her younger sister's clothes, who was just then going out to service for the first time; it was twilight, and she stepped out of the path on perceiving something near her mother's grave, which she could not distinguish without approaching nearer. As she advanced she saw a man stooping down, as if to read what was written on the stone, and which the dimness of the evening scarcely allowed him to see. His whole attention was engrossed, and he did not hear her footstep.

"Anna Eastwood," said he, "daughter of William and Mary Campbell;—Ah! that is her. But is there no other name? Is there not another Anna Eastwood? Did I not hasten the death of my child also?"

Anna heard no more, but overcome by the suddenness of the discovery, uttered a faint scream and fell senseless on the turf. The man started from his reverie; and perceiving by her white dress where she lay, at that moment lost to all animation as the dead by which she was surrounded; he hastened to her relief, and raising her in his arms, without the least idea how near she was allied to him. He supported her and himself against the tombstone, till her faint breathings informed him she revived. At this moment a labouring man passed along the path; and Eastwood called to him.

"Come here, my friend," said he, "and assist this young lady."

"Gracious me!" exclaimed the man, on perceiving who she was, "it is Miss Meridith! How did she come here at this time of the night? Is she very bad?" continued he, on observing her tremble, and looking wildly around.

"Don't you know me, Miss—poor Thomas?—Don't be frightened, nobody shall hurt you; did this man attempt it?"

"Oh, no," replied Anna, who had now gained her recollection, and scarcely able to refrain from declaring he was her father; but reflecting on Mrs. Meridith's uneasiness at her stay, she expressed a wish to go home.

"Can you walk, Madam?" said the stranger, gathering from her appearance, and the manner in which the labourer regarded her, that she was in a superior situation. "Will you allow me to assist you? I am a stranger here, or I would offer to call some one, but perhaps this man can procure you a conveyance?"

"I shan't leave her alone with a stranger," said Thomas; "who knows what you may be?" ("Who, indeed!" thought Anna, with a heavy sigh;) "or what you have done to her? She a'n't used to be soon frightened! Miss Meridith is none of your timid-hearted young ladies."

"Indeed I am not," returned Anna; "I am able to walk now, and if you will accompany me to Rosewood, I will thank you, Thomas."

"That I will, Miss," replied he, "I will see you safe home; and be glad you be a little more like yourself again."

"And will you not permit me, Madam, to assist you?" repeated the stranger; "I do not think you can walk without support."

"I would wish,—I should be obliged;" returned Anna, in hurried accents, and her agitation became again so great, that she involuntarily rested on his arm to recover herself.

"I fear I have greatly alarmed you," said he, "but I am sure it was unintentionally."—"I hope that's true," thought Thomas, who stood watching him as narrowly as the twilight would permit.

"How far are we from this lady's home?" asked the stranger.

"Oh not above a quarter of a mile," said Thomas, "if she could but walk."

"I can now," said Anna, "and I will accept your offer, Sir." She then advanced, leaning on her father's arm, her heart beating all the way with an emotion not to be expressed, and Thomas on the other side of her.

Neither of them spoke a word, till, as they entered the gate which led to the house, they met Syphax coming out in search of his young lady.

"O! my dear Miss," said he, "I am glad you are come; we have been quite uneasy at your staying so late."

Thomas was the only one who could speak, so as to account for it, and his relation was so unconnected, and so full of his surprise at finding Miss Meridith in the church-yard alone with a strange man, that little could be learnt from it, except that as he said he was determined not to leave him with her again, or he would have ran and called somebody; for which he was rewarded with some good ale by Syphax, and a handsome present from Mrs. Meridith.

When they entered the hall, where the lamp was already lighted, Anna and her conductor first saw the faces of each other; but without that emotion on his side which it occasioned on her's. "And is this my father?" she was ready to exclaim; but checking herself, she desired Syphax to shew him into the parlour; and begging him to wait till she saw him again, she ran, or rather flew up stairs into Mrs. Meridith's apartment, who was anxiously waiting her return; and without giving her time to say a word, she threw her arms about her neck, and exclaimed, "Oh! Mamma, I have seen my father!"

For a moment Mrs. Meridith was apprehensive that her senses were affected, but when she saw the tears which accompanied her declaration, and her pale, yet expressive face, she could not disbelieve her; but begging her to be composed, she placed her on the sofa, and then shutting the door of the room, she seated herself by her side, and desired to hear more of what had passed.

"This is an event," said she, "which was not unlikely to happen, if your father yet lived; but tell me where did you meet? and are you sure it was him?" The calmness with which Mrs. Meridith spoke, extended itself in a little time to Anna, and she related what had passed at her mother's grave, with as much composure as could be expected.

"Then he does not know you as his daughter?" said Mrs. Meridith, "You had great resolution not to discover yourself, and I am glad of it. Is he now below?"

"Yes," replied Anna, "and what shall I do? If he makes any inquiry in the village he will soon find out who I am; and then—"

"What then?" said Mrs. Meridith, "he may be a reformed man, and what you have already witnessed seems to promise it; I will go and talk to him, and if by his conversation I find him a different man from what he once was, you may yet have reason to rejoice in your father."

"And may not I go too?" asked Anna.

"If you can command your feelings to hear the account he may give of himself, without discovery, I have no objection," replied Mrs. Meridith.

"I think I can, after what has already passed," said Anna: "pray let me go; I will not say a word;" and they descended to the parlour together.

The Stranger rose at their entrance; while Anna shrunk behind her protectress. His appearance was not uninteresting, and though a deep melancholy sat upon his features, it might be seen he had once been handsome; he looked older than he really was, and his clothes and address evinced him to be above a common person.

"Pray be seated, Sir," said Mrs. Meridith, "I am come to thank you for your assistance to Miss Meridith; I hope my servant has not neglected to offer you some refreshment," and she rang the bell. The Stranger bowed, and declined taking any thing; and hoped the young lady was quite recovered.

Anna's lips moved, but her pale and agitated countenance told him she was not. When Syphax entered, he replenished the fire, and placed something to eat and drink on the table, but still the Stranger refused it.

"Are you quite unknown in the village, Sir?" asked Mrs. Meridith.

"At present I am, Madam; but I expect to meet—I have been acquainted"—here he hesitated, and was again silent.

"You will think my questions very impertinent, Sir," resumed Mrs. Meridith, "if I do not tell you that I take your name to be Eastwood."

"And is it possible any one can know me?" exclaimed the man, and covering his face with his hand: "Oh! do not say you do; for I am truly ashamed of what I have been."

"You are the person I took you for," replied Mrs. Meridith, looking affectionately at Anna, whose tears flowed afresh; "yet as much altered, perhaps, in mind as in person."

"More, more, I hope, Madam," replied he with emotion; "I am ashamed of what I have been; but how could you know me? I do not recollect any one like you."

"Perhaps not," replied she; "but I have heard of you from Mr. Campbell."

"Oh! then you must despise and hate me!" said he, again hiding his face. "But indeed I am not what I was: and can you tell me," added he, "who are alive of that family? Is there any of my name among them?" and he looked with eager attention for her answer.

"None that I know of," replied Mrs. Meridith; "the old farmer and his wife are both dead; and their eldest son is married, and has a large family."

"But are they all his own children?" repeated the man with great earnestness; "has he not one of mine?" His distress was so great that Mrs. Meridith, forgetting the caution she had given Anna, could not help endeavouring to relieve it by replying—

"No, but I have;—that is her."

It was now Anna's turn to support her father, for he sunk back motionless in the chair, only uttering, "It is impossible!"

She flew towards him, and bathed his face with her tears while she hung over him with inexpressible pleasure and emotion. When a little revived, he exclaimed, "and have you been a mother to her, when, through my inhumanity, she had lost her own? Oh, what a merciful Providence has watched over my child! when I, wretch that I was, was totally unmindful of her!" In this way he kept soliloquizing, while he looked first at one and then the other, and then repeated his thanks to the Almighty.

"But can my child forgive me?" continued he, very impassionately.

"Do not ask it, my father!" said Anna, then first venturing to throw her arms around him, and calling him by that endearing name; "do not ask it,—I am only thankful that I am permitted to see you as you are; I have now no other wish but to evince my ardent gratitude to Mrs. Meridith for all her kindness to me; you must help me to do it, my father."

"And you, my child, must instruct me how," said he; "for till very lately I have been little used to any thing commendable. Suffer me to embrace you, and receive a father, who, though he has but little to offer you, has an earnest desire to make you all the recompense in his power for his former conduct towards you."

Anna could only answer him with tears, and while the whole party were thus engaged, Mr. Campbell entered the room, having heard part of Anna's adventure from Thomas, who, on his return home, reported it through the village, "how he had met Miss Meridith in the church-yard almost as dead as a stone, and a strange man with her;" and he hastened up to know the truth of it.

On his entrance, Anna looked at Mrs. Meridith to announce her father, and then at him, to observe if he recollected her uncle: which he immediately did, and turning away his face, he uttered, in a low voice, "How richly have I deserved this shame! Oh, how shall I bear it!" Mr. Campbell's countenance was all astonishment and anxiety.

"Pardon my intrusion, Madam," said he, to Mrs. Meridith, "but hearing Anna was ill, I came to see if it was so; I did not know you had company."

"A stranger," replied Mrs. Meridith, evidently much embarrassed.

"Him who was with Anna?" asked Mr. Campbell, scarcely knowing what to think. "Good Heavens! what can be the matter?"

"Oh, my father!" exclaimed Anna, perceiving him almost sinking with shame and confusion.

"Your father!" repeated Mr. Campbell in amazement, "can it be him? is it Eastwood?"

"Oh, look not on me!" said the humiliated man, "I know you must detest me!"

"Mr. Campbell can forgive," said Mrs. Meridith, feeling much at his distress.

"Not me, not me," replied he, "I cannot forgive myself."

The farmer stood in silent astonishment, while Anna took his hand, and with an imploring look said, "my father is not what he was, my dear uncle, he is sensible of his faults; can you desire more?"

"No, my child, I am not appointed his judge, or his punisher; his crimes have been their own punishment, I doubt not;" here a sigh, or rather groan, from the poor man, witnessed the truth of his remark.

"Let me then join your hands," said Anna, with emotion, and drawing them towards each other; "my dear uncle, you have supplied the place of a father to me, and now my father thanks you."

"On my knees I do!" said Eastwood; "may your kindness meet with its due reward."

"And are you indeed an altered man?" replied Campbell, overcome by his contrition, "then to my heart I can receive you; and let all that is past be forgotten."

"Unless my future conduct should remind you of it," said Eastwood, "and then banish me from your society for ever."

The rest of the evening was spent in mutual inquiries, and Anna listened with an agitated mind to the brief account her father gave of his former life.