We walked together in the gardens and in the evening when I would have retired he asked me to stay and read to him; and first said, “When I was last here your mother read Dante to me; you shall go on where she left off.” And then in a moment he said, “No, that must not be; you must not read Dante. Do you choose a book.” I took up Spencer and read the descent of Sir Guyon to the halls of Avarice;[28] while he listened his eyes fixed on me in sad profound silence. I heard the next morning from the steward that upon his arrival he had been in a most terrible state of mind: he had passed the first night in the garden lying on the damp grass; he did not sleep but groaned perpetually. “Alas!” said the old man[,] who gave me this account with tears in his eyes, “it wrings my heart to see my lord in this state: when I heard that he was coming down here with you, my young lady, I thought we should have the happy days over again that we enjoyed during the short life of my lady your mother--But that would be too much happiness for us poor creatures born to tears--and that was why she was taken from us so soon; [s]he was too beautiful and good for us[.] It was a happy day as we all thought it when my lord married her: I knew her when she was a child and many a good turn has she done for me in my old lady’s time--You are like her although there is more of my lord in you--But has he been thus ever since his return? All my joy turned to sorrow when I first beheld him with that melancholy countenance enter these doors as it were the day after my lady’s funeral--He seemed to recover himself a little after he had bidden me write to you--but still it is a woful thing to see him so unhappy.”[29] These were the feelings of an old, faithful servant: what must be those of an affectionate daughter. Alas! Even then my heart was almost broken. We spent two months together in this house. My father spent the greater part of his time with me; he accompanied me in my walks, listened to my music, and leant over me as I read or painted. When he conversed with me his manner was cold and constrained; his eyes only seemed to speak, and as he turned their black, full lustre towards me they expressed a living sadness. There was somthing in those dark deep orbs so liquid, and intense that even in happiness I could never meet their full gaze that mine did not overflow. Yet it was with sweet tears; now there was a depth of affliction in their gentle appeal that rent my heart with sympathy; they seemed to desire peace for me; for himself a heart patient to suffer; a craving for sympathy, yet a perpetual self denial. It was only when he was absent from me that his passion subdued him,--that he clinched his hands--knit his brows--and with haggard looks called for death to his despair, raving wildly, untill exhausted he sank down nor was revived untill I joined him.