“Stay!” observed Mr. Calvert, “do not mistake me. It is your misfortune, not your crime: and for misfortune which no power of yours could ever remedy, apology or excuse can never be demanded. It was my hope some time ago that Jane and yourself might possibly dissolve this acquaintance yourselves, when my sentiments and those of her mother and family were made known to you both; and thus render such an explanation as the present needless. But I have been mistaken: and in permitting that farther communication which I foolishly hoped would terminate itself, we have only fastened the bands more tightly, and increased the probabilities of pain on that after-separation, which, difficult as the words are to me to speak, I still am compelled to say, _must_ be effected. We cannot go on thus any longer. Even now it is a question of every importance to you both. To my poor dear daughter it may soon become a question of life or death. The possibility of such a result must be averted. The step must be taken in time. Though the blow be painful it must be struck. Nevertheless, when you are gone, carry with you the assurance that I still continue, along with all my family, to think honourably of you,--to remember your worthiness,--to look with melancholy pleasure upon the time when we could entertain you personally under our roof,--and to regret to the last hour of our lives that so unhappy an ending should have come to the young affection of one whom it would have been our delight, if possible, to have blessed with the good creature--for such my Jane is--the good and worthy creature he had sought.” So saying, Mr. Calvert pressed Colin's hand energetically during several minutes. “Bless you, my friend!” added he, as he gazed upon the heart-broken youth beside him,--“Bless you!--Even now I cannot part with you without betraying more than becomes me as a father in such a case.” And as he falteringly uttered these words, his eyes confirmed them with nature's purest token of severed friendship. “Your worthiness,” at length replied Colin, “makes me, sir, lost what to say. Had you treated me harshly I could have replied; but as it is, I feel still the more bound by the very efforts made to shake me off. If you will have it so, sir, I know not how to oppose: though certainly it is impossible for me ever to comply. Not by that, that I mean to say the wishes of so worthy a man shall not be carried out as far as Heaven will give me power to do it: but though _I_ go away never to return more, believe me, sir, my heart will be left with those I leave,--I shall do my best to forget where I am,--to inhabit this place still in imagination, and live out my life at least with the memory of her whom I am forbidden to know in any other manner.” “Endeavour to be reconciled,” observed Mr. Calvert; “and remember that even the most favoured cannot say that this world was made for happiness.” “No, indeed!” exclaimed Colin bitterly,--“it is not indeed.”