Ellen De Freston was seated with her father in the fifth room of Freston Tower, in the bay-window, looking over the waves. She had seen her parent's anxious eyes diverted from his wonted study, and restlessly wandering over the banks of the river, evidently not surveying the scene with any interest, but ruminating in his mind over some thoughts which engaged his soul. 'Father, I perceive you are in deep thought, but not upon the work you are reading.' 'Nay, my child, it is the work I am reading which makes me thoughtful--deeply thoughtful; for it astonishes me to see how near to the language of inspiration a heathen writer conceives to be the value of the soul.' 'Ah! my father, what are the sentiments which have moved you so forcibly to meditation? I see you are reading the ancient treatise of Longinus, "On the Sublime."' 'I am, my daughter, and will read to you part of the 44th section. It is so extraordinary a description of the prevailing sin of man's nature, especially where Mammon reigns supreme, that had Longinus composed it for the very worst and most abandoned days of the world, he could not have placed our corruptions in a stronger light!' 'Is not this grand and sublime, my daughter, and fit for any Christian pastor's discourse?' said Lord De Freston. 'How wonderful is it, that man, uninstructed by the Gospel, should have so perfect an insight into the value of our immortal souls!' 'It is, indeed, sublime: and I thank you for reading it; but can you be surprised, dear father, estimating, as you do, the sublime qualities of the soul, that I should not marry for money?' 'I did never urge you so to do!' 'No, dear father; but I have seen some anxiety about you lately; intimating that I should not send every suitor away from the castle; that I might as well live like an anchorite in this tower.' 'I have been anxious for your happiness.' 'I know it well, dear father; and if ever I find a mind like your own, you will have no cause for regret that I am married. You have made me dainty in this respect. I cannot wed lord or squire, unless I find myself capable of acknowledging him to be my head; one who will regard me, not for my personal estate or appearance, but for my mind: that as we steer our course through life, we may mutually respect each other, that I may reverence him for his good qualities, and he may cherish me as his companion in the ways of wisdom and virtue. For if my lord, whoever he may chance to be, can never bend his ear to hear my words, and I cannot aspire to read his soul, how can I feel the true control of love? The hand, if bestowed without the heart, and without a sufficient respect for the superior qualities of the soul, can never secure happiness, at least to an educated mind.'