“And God forbid,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a firm yet melancholy eye, “that in my tongue should not speak the temper of my noble father—for it is a temper all of loyalty, and nobleness, and honor. God forbid that in my breast there should not beat the haughty heart of the Claverings, for in their haughtiness to the high they ever have borne themselves humbly to the low; and in their pride toward the proud and great, they ever have protected the poor and the forlorn. God forbid, I say, Lionel Thornhill, God forbid that I should not be proud—for I am proud only of gentle blood, and gentle deeds, and honorable bearing. And you, too, sir, should rejoice in that pride of mine; for had I not been proud, too proud to value wealth, or rank, or title, apart from that nobility of soul which alone gives them value, proud enough to esteem the man of my choice, honored by his own virtues only, and his innate and natural grandeur, far above loftier suitors, then had I never said to thee, ‘I _do_ love, Lionel,’ never had brought my pride to be humbled thus, by reproach whence I should have met gratitude; by insult, whence I should have looked for support. But it matters not. If I have erred, I can retrace my steps; and I have erred, sir, erred fearfully, if not fatally. I fancied you all that was high and great, all that was generous and gentle, all that was true and tender, all that was chivalrous and courteous. I worshiped you almost as a god; my eyes are opened, and I find you—a mere man!—and a man of no manly mould. We have both been mistaken, Lionel. You never have known me in my strength, nor I you in your weakness. But I will neither upbraid nor explain. Better to part now forever, with warm hearts, and no unkindly feelings, than to be linked irretrievably together, and find, too late, that we are uncongenial souls, and wear out years of bickering and growing coldness, and hate, perhaps, before we die—” “Hate!” exclaimed Lionel, now alarmed by her earnestness, despite his wayward mood, and fearful, at length, that he had gone too far—“and could _you_ hate? could you hate _me_, Margaret?” “I could do more,” she replied, “I told you that you know me not. I could despise, if I found you worthless.” “But I am not—I am not worthless, Margaret. Great God! I worthless! I who would lay down life to win honor, honor itself to win you—” “To lay down honor were the way to lose, not win me.”