“You must not leave us so long again, my daughter,” said her venerable father, as she entered the room. “My home appears almost cheerless, unless I hear your voice. Sing to us one of your sweet songs.” “What shall I sing, dear father? Shall it be your favorite, Grace Darling?” “Not Grace Darling to-night, my love, it is mournful and tells of shipwreck and death.” “Well, I will sing my own favorite,” said Mary, seating herself at the piano, “it shall be ‘My heart’s in the Highlands, My heart is not here.’” The parents looked at each other and smiled, as their beautiful daughter struck the keys; for they felt that few beings were as lovely as their own Mary. “Dear papa!” said she at length, suddenly stopping, and turning around, “I want to ask a favor of _you_,—I am sure mamma will grant it. Let me go to New York next week. There now, I knew you would,—you are always such a kind and indulgent papa,” and throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him tenderly. “Well, if mamma gives her consent, I suppose I must give mine. But, dear Mary, don’t come home this time so down-hearted as you did from the last visit you paid your sister. There now, since you have got your boon, play me another song.” Mary felt the blood rush to her very brow at this chance remark of her father; but turning around to her piano, she struck into a march, to hide her emotion. In a few days she set forth to New York, with a heart, vacillating between duty and love,—determined, however, to permit only one interview, and then to bid her lover adieu forever. “You will have a strong advocate in my wife,” said Mr. M—— to Mr. James, who sat on the sofa by Mary Levingston the evening of her arrival. “She is resolved, she says, to return home with her sister hoping she may be enabled to soften the feelings of Mr. Levingston toward your father.” “I hope she may prove a successful pleader,” said the lover, “and prepare the way for my casting myself at his feet when I return. Since I have obtained my sweet Mary’s forgiveness, I feel that I can now with courage brave the hardships of the deep. The thought that she loves me, will be the sun that will light my path in a distant clime. The thought that she is my advocate with her father fills me with the conviction that the ancient enmity will be buried in oblivion and that all will soon be well.” “You are far more sanguine, as to the result, dear Edward, than I am,” said Mary: “I have little hope myself of succeeding with my father. I know his feelings so well on this point, that I tremble lest I have sinned beyond forgiveness. One thing, here, in the presence of those that are so dear, I solemnly declare, though my heart may be crushed, never to unite my destiny to one his judgment disapproves. I should feel a solitary outcast, even with him I so tenderly love, without a father’s blessing.”