“What have I to fear if I disobey my father’s commands once more?—he cannot use me worse. I’ll stay here till he returns—again throw myself in his way, and then I will not faint, but plead for mercy. Perhaps were I to kneel to him—kneel, like other children to their parents, and beg his blessing, he would not refuse it me.” “You must not try:” said Sandford, mildly. “Who,” cried she, “shall prevent me flying to my father? Have I another friend on earth? Have I one relation in the world but him? This is the second time I have been turned out of his house. In my infant state my cruel father turned me out; but then, he sent me to a mother—now I have none; and I will stay with him.” Again the steward sent to let them know the coach was waiting. Sandford, now, with a determined countenance, went coolly up to Lady Matilda, and taking her hand, seemed resolved to lead her to the carriage. Accustomed to be awed by every serious look of his, she yet resisted this; and cried, “Would _you_ be the minister of my father’s cruelty?” “Then,” said Sandford solemnly to her, “farewell—from this moment you and I part. I will take my leave, and do you remain where you are—at least till you are forced away. But I’ll not stay to be driven hence—for it is impossible your father will suffer any friend of yours to continue here, after this disobedience. Adieu.” “I’ll go this moment,” said she, and rose hastily. Miss Woodley took her at her word, and hurried her immediately out of the room. Sandford followed slow behind, as if he had followed at her funeral. When she came to that spot on the stairs where she had met her father, she started back, and scarce knew how to pass it. When she had—“There he held me in his arms,” said she, “and I thought I felt him press me to his heart, but I now find I was mistaken.” As Sandford came forward, to hand her into the coach, “Now you behave well;” said he, “by this behaviour, you do not entirely close all prospect of reconciliation with your father.” “Do you think it is not yet impossible?” cried she, clasping his hand. “Giffard says he loves me,” continued she, “and do you think he might yet be brought to forgive me?” “Forgive you!” cried Sandford. “Suppose I was to write to him, and entreat his forgiveness?” “Do not write yet,” said Sandford, with no cheering accent. The carriage drove off—and as it went, Matilda leaned her head from the window, to survey Elmwood House from the roof to the bottom. She cast her eyes upon the gardens too—upon the fish ponds—even the coach houses, and all the offices adjoining—which, as objects that she should never see again—she contemplated, as objects of importance. CHAPTER II.