As soon as she was gone, the Duke approached his daughter. “This is going too far,” he said, pointing to the letter: “there is no excuse for you.” She asked him, with some vivacity, why he had broken the seal, and wherefore it was not delivered as it was addressed. With coldness he apologized to her for the liberty he had taken, which even a father’s right over an only child, he observed, could scarcely authorise. “But,” continued he, “duty has of late been so much sacrificed to inclination, that we must have charity for each other. As I came, however, by your letter somewhat unfairly, I shall make no comments upon it, nor describe the feelings that it excited in my mind—only observe, I will have this end here; and my commands, like yours, shall be obeyed.” He then reproached her for her behaviour of late. “I have seen you give way,” he said, “to exceeding low spirits, and I am desirous of knowing why this grief has suddenly been changed to ill-timed gaiety and shameless effrontery? Will nothing cure you of this love of merriment? Will an angry father, an offended husband, and a contemning world but add to and encrease it? Shall I say happy Calantha, or shall I weep over the hardness of a heart, that is insensible to the grief of others, and has ceased to feel for itself? Alas! I looked upon you as my comfort and delight; but you are now to me, a heavy care—a never ceasing reproach; and if you persist in this line of conduct, the sooner you quit this roof, which rings with your disgrace, the better it will be for us all. Those who are made early sacrifices to ambition and interest may plead some excuse; but you, Calantha, what can you say to palliate your conduct? A father’s blessing accompanied the choice your own heart made; and was not Avondale a noble choice? What quality is there, whether of person or of mind, in which he is deficient? I think of him with feelings of pride.”—“I do so, too, my father.”—“Go, poor deluded child,” he continued, in an offended tone, “fly to the arms of your new lover, and seek with him that happiness of which you have robbed me for ever, and which I fear you yourself never more will know. Do not answer me, or by those proud looks attempt to hide your disgrace. I am aware of all you would urge; but am not to be swayed by the sophistry you would make use of. This is no innocent friendship. Beware to incense me by uttering one word in its defence. Are you not taught that God, who sees the heart, looks not at the deed, but at the motive? In his eye the murderer who has made up his mind to kill, has already perpetrated the deed; and the adultress who....”—“Ah, call me not by that name, my father: I am your only child. No proud looks shall now shew themselves, or support me; but on my knees here, even here, I humble myself before you. Speak not so harshly to me: I am very miserable.”