She, poor innocent, hardly knows that she has any other father. I am to her but as a name; but I do long most ardently once more to see her. I think years have not so altered her that I shall not recognize her. I have pleased myself during my long exile of sixteen years with forming to myself an image of my dear child growing up to woman’s estate; and the miniature likeness of her dear mother assists my imagination now in forming an idea of my daughter. She is now expecting my return; and the last letter which I received of my most excellent brother-in-law, informed me that the poor girl had bestowed her affections, and would with my approbation bestow her hand, on a worthy and respectable man. I left all these matters to my relative in England. I was sure that he would act towards my child as a parent, and as a wiser and more truly kind parent than I have been. I was happy till this hour in the thought that I was hastening home to England to return my thanks to my benefactor, to see my dear child, and receive her at his hands--and now alas this happy, this blessed, prospect is blighted by the melancholy intelligence of this good man’s death, and would to heaven that this were the worst--but the most painful intelligence is yet to be added. I am informed from the best authority that my poor dear child has been simple enough to be captivated by a young man of high rank, who is too vain to love any one but himself, and too proud to marry beneath his own rank. I am, therefore, likely to be greeted with sorrows and perplexities on my very return to England.” The elder stranger sighed calmly; and as it were resignedly, when he had finished speaking. The younger one looked thoughtful and sighed also. A pause of some minutes’ silence followed, and the young man said: “You must hope better things, sir; a long absence from home should indeed always prepare us for something of change and calamity; we must look for those fluctuations of humanity: but still we may be permitted to hope, and to enjoy pleasing thoughts as long as possible.” “Yes, sir, your remarks are very true, but they are not so easily applied. Hope does not come and go at the command of reason, and the spirits do not rise and fall according to the dictates of the understanding, or by any force of ratiocination. I ought to apologise for troubling you, a stranger, with my sorrows; they cannot be interesting to you; but it is not easy when the heart is full to prevent it from overflowing.” “No apology, sir, is necessary: or, if it were, I might adopt the language of your apology, and use it as a preface to my tale of sorrow and disappointment awaiting me also at my return to my native land. I have also cause for grief.” “Indeed, one so young as you appear to be! But yours, young man, are the sorrows, perhaps, of a youthful lover. Yours are not so deeply rooted as mine.”