"Let me entreat your Highness to be composed," said Henry Seymour. "You torment yourself with vain terrors. I cannot suffer myself to imagine for a moment that the duke can be otherwise than successful."
"My dear child," observed Sir Ambrose, "exert your own good sense; nothing can be more foolish than to let imaginary horrors usurp any influence over your senses; you thus suffer doubly, and often the pains of anticipation exceed those of reality. But, see, here comes Father Murphy, and my little lively niece, Clara. Well, father, what news? Will the princess be Queen?"
"Och, and there can be no manner of doubt of it!" returned Father Murphy.
Elvira turned pale. "God in his mercy grant you may be mistaken!" said she.
"Oh, dear!" cried Clara, involuntarily.
"Why do you exclaim, fair lady?" asked the doctor, smiling.
"I am so surprised—so astonished!" said the blushing girl.
"At what?" resumed the doctor inquisitively.
"That—that," said Clara timidly, "that the princess should not like to be a Queen."
"Alas! alas!" said Elvira, smiling languidly, "you are too young, Clara, to know the awful responsibility such a situation would impose. The Queen of England must devote herself to her people; once elected, she is cut off for ever from all the happiness of domestic life. She must form no ties—she must indulge in no attachments—she can never feel the happiness of devoting herself entirely to promote the welfare of one adored object. She can never know the transports of a mother!" and, sighing deeply, Elvira cast her eyes upon the ground, whilst those of Henry Seymour were fixed earnestly upon her.