worthy _of her_, if not of _his fortune_. Let him, if it please him, build hospitals with his money: I shall not want it!” “Trusting to the effects of time and absence,” answered Mr. Hardcastle, “I will finish this conversation, by my positive prohibition of your corresponding with Miss Cowley, either directly or indirectly, during your absence. I wish you to receive this command, as qualified by parental love. She is young, my dear Horace, as well as yourself; trust to your father; you may both change your present sentiments. Leave her to the only test of a permanent affection—more acquaintance with the world, and more knowledge of herself. Her situation and sphere in life will soon be very different from what they are at present. The society and the pleasures of the world will solicit her attention, and although I do not believe she will ever forget her early friends, time and absence may, and will weaken the present impressions of her mind. Trust also something to my experience; even _you_, my dear Horace, may forget to a certain degree, this amiable young woman. You will be engaged in pursuits, which may, without any miracle, direct your thoughts from present objects; and you may live to feel, that Mr. Cowley’s daughter is not necessary to your happiness.” Poor Horace’s agitations were not concealed. “Before we part,” added the tender father, “let me assure you, that were this young creature _any_ but what she _is_, I would select her from amidst thousands as a wife for my son. Let this assertion content you, and convince you of the importance I affix to the _firm_ opposition I make to your affection. Be then _a Hardcastle_; and submit your passions to that controul which will secure to you the blessings of _a Hardcastle_.” A short interval was allotted for the young man’s preparations in order to his joining Lord William. Miss Cowley’s firmness not only supported this hour, but also her friend Lucy’s more tender spirits. She spoke of Horace’s departure with calmness, and observed from time to time, that he could not better fill up a year or two than by travelling. On the morning he left the parental roof, she further manifested her resolution and spirit. Poor Horace rose to obey the third or fourth summons which had announced that “all was ready.” “We part,” said she, offering him her glowing cheek, “as brother and sister—such be our adieux. But when next we meet, Horace, this hand shall testify the faith and truth of Rachel Cowley. _Thus_ I plight it!” She raised her eyes to heaven, grasped his hand a moment, and then darted from the room, leaving Mr. Hardcastle to his surprise, and to comfort his son.