Lord De Freston too dearly loved, valued, honored, and respected the child whom he had educated, to bias her affections. One thing he was quite sure of, that she would marry a gentleman and a Christian, and he was content to leave the matter to the direction of His hand who governs and orders all things for man's felicity. It was not to be supposed that the Baron of Freston Castle had no pride of ancestry. He had as much as his contemporaries. He was a man who could uphold the appearance of a noble by as much internal dignity and self-composure as any of the judges of the land; but he was a man enlightened enough to perceive that nothing unnatural could be acceptable to the God of Nature. He found in the revelation of God everything virtuously natural upheld, that corruption only had instilled false principles of superstition, which alike defied the laws of nature and of God. Though he admired the devotions of piety, he abjured the horrors of fanaticism; though he honored men of learning, he despised not the ignorant; and only when he found fools claiming, or rather arrogating to themselves superior godliness, and showing it in the condemnation of others, did he venture upon open rebuke and expostulation. His zeal was even then tempered with such manly discretion that the censorious fanatic, confused before the noble, could not but acknowledge that he might be wrong; yet seldom, though defeated, would he turn and say, 'I am benefited'; such is the difference between rebuking a wise man and a fool. No wonder, then, with such a father, Ellen should feel confidence in maintaining her own right to judge for herself in that event which, for good or evil, is certainly, with all who do enter into its bonds, productive of misery or comfort. CHAPTER XI. THE CONVERSATION. If there is in England a spot where hill, wood, and water, without being too expanded, can be just sufficiently extensive to be enchanting, it is the view from Freston Tower over the waves of the Orwell. No poet can fail to imbibe the purity of nature's thoughts when seated in or near that spot. The very sight of the drawing of the Tower called forth the feeling of some descriptive stranger, whose words are thus recorded in the history of Ipswich: 'Who can o'er thy summer tide, Winding Orwell, ever glide, Nor with raptured eye confess Many scenes of loveliness, Spreading fair thy banks along, Subjects meet for poet's song? But the scene I love the best, Here is faithfully express'd By the artist's skilful hand, Mightier than wizard's wand: Yes, old Freston, stern and gray, Looking o'er the watery way, Hath for me more charms than all Wooded park or lordly hall!' The tower only is now standing, but how long it may continue to grace the Orwell no one can tell. In these utilitarian days, almost every mark of ancient elegance seems to be giving way before the desire of making money.