In what way was her holy object to be accomplished? Her heart, already so prostrate, fairly ran cold at the inquiry. But if she recoiled from it at first, she soon began to think of it, in her solitary moments, with more calmness. Occasionally, when she thought no eye was observing her, she would steal a glance at her father’s face, and, as she there saw what he was suffering within, she would accuse herself of disobedience, and even of selfishness. Then she would reflect, with something like pleasure, that she could not live long; and, if she soothed the last days of her father, what could it matter how she sacrificed herself? Don Felix, it was true, could never possess her love; but his present devotion to her father had restored him to her esteem; and if it would give happiness to the latter, whom she had made unhappy, why should she hesitate to wed him? It would be all the same to her; she could not be more wretched than she was; and when the hour should come which would lead her to another sphere, where the very fulness of peace would be opened to her, she would be haunted by no remembrance of disobedience, or shadow of reproach. But though her heart could pause on such a reflection, it was too weak and human, and attached too closely to the memories and associations of the past, to approach it with resolution. She pondered on it, indeed, very frequently; but never long, and always with some degree of horror. One afternoon, however, it occurred to her so forcibly, that, strive as she might, she positively could not repel it. She was seated in the common room, and its only other inmate, it so happened, was her father. He sat with his side towards her; but his head, contrary to his wont, was resting on his open hand, and, though she repeatedly turned her glance upon him, she could not see his face. After a time, she began to think he was asleep; and something prompted her, now she could not be observed, to approach him, and take a close survey of his features. Light as her step was, Sir Edgar heard her approaching, and looked up. For the first time since the morning following the return of Don Felix, her eyes met his, and she observed, at her first glance, that they were filled with tears. She had paused when he raised his eyes; but now, banishing her hesitation, she sprang hastily forward, and threw herself at his feet. “Father!” she said, in a deep voice; and, as she spoke, she planted her arms on his knees, and caught his right hand in both hers:--“Thou think’st I love thee not!” Sir Edgar’s eyes overflowed. “My child! my darling! not love me!” he cried. “Oh, I know thou dost! I know thou dost!” “I have been self-willed, dear,” answered Evaline. “Wilt thou forgive me?” Sir Edgar, bending a little forward, threw his arm round her neck, and pressed his lips to her cheek. “Shall I forgive thee for being my comforter?” he said. “Thou hast ever been my true darling, and most loving child! What can I forgive thee more?”