Kate. Not my brother! you jest now. My father has claimed you.
Sept. But there is something here that revolts at the kinship. Why should he claim me as his son? There are no proofs, no likeness to him, or her he calls my mother. Nothing but the mere fact that I was found after the wreck of the vessel in which his wife sailed.
Kate. No, no! Sept., he must be right. He does see a resemblance to his lost wife in your face. No, no! it must be true.
Sept. I will not believe it without further proof. I do not feel towards him as I know I should were he my father; and as for a brother’s love, the love within my heart for you is of a higher and a holier nature than even that of brother. Kate, you told me last night that you loved me, that you would one day be my wife: will you still keep your promise?
Kate. O Sept.! it is impossible!
Sept. If this should be a trick,—a trick to rob me of you,—this claim put forward to keep me from your path until you had wed a richer suitor—
Kate. Why, Sept., you cannot believe my father so base as that: you are mad?
Sept. Yes, Kate! I am mad,—madly in love with you. Believe me, I am not your brother. This is, at the best, a mere suspicion.
Kate. Suspicion! yes: it is a suspicion, but one that must forever separate us. It may be you are right, and something at my heart tells me you are; but this suspicion will forever darken my life. No, Sept.; much as I love you, it were better we should forever dismiss the hope. For, whether further proof should be found or not, every hope of happiness would be blasted by the fear—the dread—that you might be my brother. Sept., you shall always find in me a sister, a loving sister; ever watchful for your comfort, ever praying for your happiness; but, for Heaven’s sake, no more of a warmer tie. (Exit, R.)