"She only replied, 'I do,' but that was sufficient, my heart ached for her, but I was at peace. It was not long after this conversation, that the last scene occurred; I remember I had been sitting in my room all the morning, finishing some work that Mabel had begun for me. At length, I grew tired of being alone, and, taking up my work, I went down stairs. I heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting-room, and I guessed whose it was. I felt frightened—for since my William's death, everything affects me—so I stopped; but I heard my child sobbing, and I opened the door directly. She was seated at the table, leaning down, and covering her face with her hands. She always feared to vex me by letting me see her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated even to think of me at that moment. He was standing opposite, glaring on her like a maniac.
"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as I looked for an explanation, 'it is well, perhaps, that you are here, to witness your daughter's coquetry, or her madness.'
"'Sir,' replied I, 'pray remember to whom you speak; there may be a slight difference in our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I recognise where my child is concerned.'
"'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he replied, 'I am mad. Your daughter, in whose love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to refuse to marry me, because we differ on some absurd points of superstitious doctrine.'
"'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying to speak calmly, 'in calling them absurd, and that is where we differ. What happiness can Mabel expect with one who ridicules the motives which are, at once, the guide and blessing of her existence?—or what reliance can she have on a man who does not even recognise the principles on which she alone relies for strength. I think Mabel is quite right to remain as she is, sacrificing, as she does, every worldly interest to a noble principle.'
"The poor girl started up, and walking to him, laid her pretty hand upon his arm, and looking at him beseechingly, she said—'Do not let us part in anger—I can bear anything but that—let me remain your friend for ever, even as you are; but do not think me wrong for refusing to be your wife.'
"I never shall forget that moment; he shook her from him, as if she had been a serpent. She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at my feet.
"He looked down upon her, as she lay upon the floor, hiding her face in my gown, as if he would have withered her with his contempt. Oh, how could he think I could have trusted her to one like him?
"'Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' he burst out—"'It is broken now, if this be the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my poor stricken girl.