“If it is in my power,” returned he, “to grant what she asks, I will—but if her demand is what I apprehend, I cannot, I will not, bid her rest by complying. You know my resolution, my disposition, and take care how you provoke me. You may do an injury to the very person you are seeking to befriend—the very maintenance I mean to allow her daughter I can withdraw.” Poor Sandford, all alarmed at this menace, replied with energy, “My Lord, unless you begin the subject, I never shall presume to mention it again.” “I take you at your word, and in consequence of that, but of that alone, we are friends. Good night, Sir.” Sandford bowed with humility, and they went to their separate bedchambers. CHAPTER IV. After Lord Elmwood had retired into his chamber, it was some time before he read the letter Sandford had given him. He first walked backwards and forwards in the room—he then began to take off some part of his dress, but he did it slowly. At length, he dismissed his valet, and sitting down, took the letter from his pocket. He looked at the seal, but not at the direction; for he seemed to dread seeing Lady Elmwood’s handwriting. He then laid it on the table, and began again to undress. He did not proceed, but taking up the letter quickly, (with a kind of effort in making the resolution) broke it open. These were its contents: “My Lord, “Who writes this letter I well know—I well know also to whom it is addressed—I feel with the most powerful force both our situations; nor should I dare to offer you even this humble petition, but that at the time you receive it, there will be no such person as I am, in existence. “For myself, then, all concern will be over—but there is a care that pursues me to the grave, and threatens my want of repose even there. “I leave a child—I will not call her mine: that has undone her—I will not call her yours; that will be of no avail—I present her before you as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner. Oh! do not refuse an asylum even in your own house, to the destitute offspring of your friend; the last, and only remaining branch of his family. “Receive her into your household, be her condition there ever so abject. I cannot write distinctly what I would—my senses are not impaired, but the powers of expression are. The complaint of the unfortunate child in the scriptures (a lesson I have studied) has made this wish cling so fast to my heart, that without the distant hope of its being fulfilled, death would have more terrors than my weak mind could support. “‘_I will go to my father; how many servants live in my father’s house, and are fed with plenty, while I starve in a foreign land?_’ “I do not ask a parent’s festive rejoicing at her approach—I do not even ask her father to behold her; but let her live under his protection. For her grandfather’s sake do not refuse this—to the child of his child, whom he entrusted to your care, do not refuse it.