case, he has doubtless the double advantage of dictating both to his spiritual and natural parents.” “My father, I beg you to speak without irony or ridicule; you may be very clever, but I merely wish you to be intelligible and serious.” “Do you wish me, then, to speak seriously?” and he appeared to _collect_ himself as he asked this question. “Certainly.” “Seriously, then, my dear child, do you not believe that your parents love you? Have you not received from your infancy every mark of affection from them? Have you not been pressed to their bosoms from your very cradle?” At these words I struggled vainly with my feelings, and wept, while I answered, “Yes.” “I am sorry, my dear child, to see you thus overpowered; my object was to appeal to your reason, (for you have no common share of reasoning power),--and to your reason I appeal;--can you suppose that parents, who have treated you with such tenderness, who love you as they do their own souls, could act (as your conduct charges them) with causeless and capricious cruelty towards you? Must you not be aware there is a reason, and that it must be a profound one? Would it not be more worthy of your duty, as well as your superior sense, to inquire into, than contend with it?” “Is it founded upon any thing in my conduct, then?--I am willing to do every thing,--to sacrifice every thing.”--“I understand,--you are willing to do every thing but what is required of you,--and to sacrifice every thing but your own inclination.” “But you have hinted at a reason.” The Director was silent. “You urged me to inquire into it.” The Director was silent still. “My father, I adjure you, by the habit you wear, unmuffle this terrible phantom to me; there is nothing I cannot encounter”--“Except the commands of your parents. But am I at liberty to discover this secret to you?” said the Director, in a tone of internal debate. “Can I imagine that you, who have in the very outset outraged parental authority, will revere parental feelings?” “My father, I do not understand you.” “My dear child, I am compelled to act with a caution and reserve unsuited to my character, which is naturally as open as yours. I dread the disclosure of a secret; it is repugnant to my habits of profound confidence; and I dread disclosing any thing to a character impetuous like yours. I feel myself reduced to a most painful situation.” “My father, act and speak with candour, my situation requires it, and your own profession demands it from you. My father, remember the inscription over the confessional which thrilled my very blood to read, “God hears thee.” Remember God hears you always, and will you not deal sincerely with one whom God has placed at your mercy?” I spoke with much agitation, and the Director appeared affected for a moment; that is, he passed his hand over his eyes, which were as dry as--his heart. He paused for several minutes, and then said, “My dear child, dare I trust you? I confess I came prepared to treat you like a