“Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment.”

“Have you seen no man, Antonia, whom though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought? Whose form, though a stranger’s, was familiar to your eyes? The sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? In whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? With whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom with confidence unbounded you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?”

“Certainly I have: the first time that I saw you, I felt it.”

Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared he credit his hearing.

“Me, Antonia?” he cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and impatience, while he seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. “Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?”