“You have indeed, Miss Milner,” answered he; “but do not suppose, that I mean to upbraid you: I am, on the contrary, going to release you from any such apprehension _for the future_.” Those last three words he delivered with a countenance so serious and so determined, with an accent so firm and so decided, they pierced through her heart. Yet she did not weep, or even sigh; but her friend, knowing what she felt, exclaimed, “Oh?” as if for her. She herself strove with her anguish, and replied, (but with a faltering voice) “I expected as much, my Lord.” “Then, Madam, you perhaps expect _all_ that I intend?” “In regard to myself,” she replied, “I suppose I do.” “Then,” said he, “you may expect that in a few days we shall part.” “I am prepared for it, my Lord,” she answered, and, while she said so, sunk upon a chair. “My Lord, what you have to say farther,” said Miss Woodley, in tears, “defer till the morning—Miss Milner, you see, is not able to bear it now.” “I have nothing to _say_ further,” replied he coolly—“I have now only to act.” “Lord Elmwood,” cried Miss Milner, divided between grief and anger, “you think to terrify me by your menaces—but I can part with you—heaven knows I can—your late behaviour has reconciled me to a separation.” On this he was going out of the room—but Miss Woodley, catching hold of him, cried, “Oh! my Lord, do not leave her in this sorrow—pity her weakness, and forgive it.” She was proceeding; and he seemed as if inclined to listen, when Sandford called out in a tone of voice so harsh, “Miss Woodley, what do you mean?”—She gave a start, and desisted. Lord Elmwood then turned to Sandford, and said, “Nay, Mr. Sandford, you need entertain no doubts of me—I have judged, and have deter——” He was going to say _determined_; but Miss Milner, who dreaded the word, interrupted the period, and exclaimed, “Oh! could my poor father know the days of sorrow I have experienced since his death, how would he repent his fatal choice of a protector!” This sentence, in which his friend’s memory was recalled, with an additional allusion to her long and secret love for him, affected Lord Elmwood much—he was moved, but ashamed of being so, and as soon as possible conquered the propensity to forgive. Yet, for a short interval, he did not know whether to go out of the room, or to remain in it; whether to speak, or to be silent. At length he turned towards her, and said, “Appeal to your father in some other form—in that (pointing at her dress) he will not know you. Reflect upon him, too, in your moments of dissipation, and let his idea controul your indiscretions—not merely in an hour of contradiction call peevishly upon his name, only to wound the dearest friend you have.”