His sole reply to this was a slight grimace, and a scarcely perceptible shrug. Alas, unhappy man! words, with him, are so much cheaper than deeds; it was as if I had said, “Pounds, not pence, must buy the article you want.” And then he sighed a querulous, self-commiserating sigh, as if in pure regret that he, the loved and courted of so many worshippers, should be now abandoned to the mercy of a harsh, exacting, cold-hearted woman like that, and even glad of what kindness she chose to bestow.

“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said I; and whether I rightly divined his musings or not, the observation chimed in with his thoughts, for he answered⁠—“It can’t be helped,” with a rueful smile at my penetration.

I have seen Esther Hargrave twice. She is a charming creature, but her blithe spirit is almost broken, and her sweet temper almost spoiled, by the still unremitting persecutions of her mother in behalf of her rejected suitor⁠—not violent, but wearisome and unremitting like a continual dropping. The unnatural parent seems determined to make her daughter’s life a burden, if she will not yield to her desires.

“Will you not forgive me, then?” said he.

“Yes⁠—I have forgiven you: but I know you cannot love me as you once did⁠—and I should be very sorry if you were to, for I could not pretend to return it: so let us drop the subject, and never recur to it again. By what I have done for you, you may judge of what I will do⁠—if it be not incompatible with the higher duty I owe to my son (higher, because he never forfeited his claims, and because I hope to do more good to him than I can ever do to you); and if you wish me to feel kindly towards you, it is deeds not words which must purchase my affection and esteem.”