"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."
"Why? Why?"
Mathilde replied with timidity:--
"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"
"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do you want?"
Mathilde, sighing, replied:--
"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."
"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you accept my proposition? Yes or no?"
"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I will reply afterward."
Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said, "Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of weakness, and her heart beat violently.