He was too much engaged by the sufferings of his ward to reply to Sandford. He placed himself on the settee by her, and with the utmost tenderness, reverence, and pity, entreated her not to be concerned at an accident in which he, and he alone, had been to blame; but which he had no doubt would be accommodated in the most amicable manner. “I have one favour to require of you, Mr. Dorriforth,” said she, “and that is, your promise, your solemn promise, which I know is ever sacred, that you will not meet my Lord Frederick.” He hesitated. “Oh, Madam,” cried Sandford, “he is grown a libertine now, and I would not believe his word, if he were to give it you.” “Then, Sir,” returned Dorriforth angrily, “you _may_ believe my word, for I will keep that which I gave to _you_. I will give Lord Frederick all the restitution in my power. But my dear Miss Milner, let not this alarm you; we may not find it convenient to meet this many a day; and most probably some fortunate explanation may prevent our meeting at all. If not, reckon but among the many duels that are fought, how few are fatal: and even in that case, how small would be the loss to society, if——” He was proceeding. “I should ever deplore the loss!” cried Miss Milner; “on such an occasion, I could not survive the death of either.” “For my part,” he replied, “I look upon my life as much forfeited to my Lord Frederick, to whom I have given a high offence, as it might in other instances have been forfeited to the offended laws of the land. Honour, is the law of the polite part of the land; we know it; and when we transgress against it knowingly, we justly incur our punishment. However, Miss Milner, this affair will not be settled immediately, and I have no doubt, but that all will be as you could wish. Do you think I should appear thus easy,” added he with a smile, “if I were going to be shot at by my Lord Frederick?” “Very well!” cried Sandford, with a look that evinced he was better informed. “You will stay within then, all this day?” said Miss Milner. “I am engaged to dinner,” he replied; “it is unlucky—I am sorry for it—but I’ll be at home early in the evening.” “Stained with human blood,” cried Sandford, “or yourself a corpse.” The ladies lifted up their hands!—Miss Milner rose from her seat, and threw herself at her guardian’s feet. “You kneeled to me last night, I now kneel to you,” (she cried) “kneel, never desiring to rise again, if you persist in your intention. I am weak, I am volatile, I am indiscreet, but I have a heart from which some impressions can never—oh! never, be erased.” He endeavoured to raise her, she persisted to kneel—and here the affright, the terror, the anguish, she endured, discovered to her, her own sentiments—which, till that moment, she had doubted—and she continued, “I no longer pretend to conceal my passion—I love Lord Frederick Lawnly.” Her guardian started.