“I am surprised and grieved,” said the Duke, “that a young man of your high rank, fortune and rising fame, should thus madly throw away your affections upon the only being perhaps who never must, never ought, to return them. My daughter’s hand is promised to another. When I confess this, do not mistake me:—No force will ever be made use of towards her; her inclinations will at all times be consulted, even though she should forget those of her parent; but she is now a mere child, and more infantine and volatile withal, than it is possible for you to conceive. There can be no necessity for her being now called upon to make a decided choice. Buchanan is my nephew, and since the loss of my son, I have centered all my hopes in him. He is heir to my name, as she is to my fortune; and surely then an union between them, would be an event the most desirable for me and for my family. But such considerations alone would not influence me. I will tell you those then which operate in a stronger manner:—I have given my solemn promise to my sister, that I will do all in my power to assist in bringing about an event upon which her heart is fixed. Judge then, if during her son’s absence, I can dispose of Calantha’s hand, or permit her to see more of one, who has already, I fear, made some impression upon her heart.” Lord Avondale appeared much agitated.—The Duke paused—then continued—“Granting that your attachment for my child is as strong as you would have me believe—granting, my dear young friend, that, captivated by your very superior abilities, manners and amiable disposition, she has in part returned the sentiments you acknowledge in her favour,—cannot you make her the sacrifice I require of you?—Yes.—Though you now think otherwise, you can do it. So short an acquaintance with each other, authorizes the term I use:—this is but a mere fancy, which absence and strength of mind will soon overcome.” Lord Avondale was proud even to a fault. He had listened to the Duke without interrupting him; and the Duke continued to speak, because he was afraid of hearing the answer, which he concluded would be made. For protestations, menaces, entreaties he was prepared; but the respectful silence which continued when he ceased, disconcerted him. “You are not angry?” said he: “let us part in friendship:—do not go from me thus:—you must forgive a father:—remember she is my child, and bound to me by still dearer ties—she is my only one.” His voice faltered, as he said this:—he thought of the son who had once divided his affections, and of whom he seldom made mention since his loss.