"Why did I not speak to you before last night? We might have made some arrangement—invented some plan: but now—now, it is impossible!"
"Do not say it is impossible, Marian—do not take away every remaining hope—for I am wretched, very wretched."
"Poor young lady!" said Marian, advancing towards the bed, and taking Ellen's hand.
"It is not for myself that I care so much," continued the unhappy girl; "it is for my poor father. It would break his heart—oh! it would, break his heart!"
"And he is a good, kind old gentleman," observed Marian.
"And he has tasted already so deeply of the bitter cup of adversity," said Ellen, "that a blow like this would send him to his grave. I know him so well—he would never survive my dishonour. He has loved me so tenderly—he has taken such pride in me, it would kill him! Do you hear, Marian?—it would kill him. Ah! you weep—you weep for me, kind Marian!"
"Yes, Miss: I would do any thing I could to serve you. But now—it is too late—"
"Say not that it is too late!" ejaculated Ellen, distractedly: "say not that all chance of avoiding exposure has fled! take compassion on me, Marian; take compassion on my poor old father! Ah! these pains—"
"Tell me how I can serve you, Miss—"
"Alas! I cannot concentrate my ideas, Marian; I am bewildered—I am reduced to despair! Oh! if men only knew what bitter, bitter anguish they entail upon poor woman, when they sacrifice her to their desires—"