After the interview with his father, for whose opinions he always had great respect, Dunbar felt sober. He acknowledged that he had indeed fallen into an error, even while the maiden's image impressed itself warmly upon his heart. That she was worthy to rise with him he had been fully satisfied; but he had not yet advanced far enough in the world's selfish wisdom to understand that there was a higher truth to be learned on this subject. His father's words revealed this to his approving reason. "But it is now too late," he said to himself, as he sat dreaming over the subject some hours afterwards, with his law books open, but unread, before him. "The engagement has been entered into, and cannot be broken. All I can do is to make the best of it. Mary is a lovely girl, and worthy to be loved. I might get a rich wife, but none so good, none so pure, none so truthful. I must only struggle the harder. They shall see that I can rise, even in spite of this drawback." These were his first thoughts and purposes. But the reflection of what he had lost kept haunting him; and the involuntary contrast between Mary, portionless and unknown, and some beautiful heiress, highly accomplished and highly connected, kept arising and dimming the maiden's image that had been stamped upon his heart. No very long time passed before Mary Lee perceived something in her lover that inwardly disturbed her. There was a change of some kind in him. He came as often, stayed as long, and uttered as many tender words, but still there was a change. He appeared the same, and yet her heart had an instinct that he was not the same. The manner of old Mr. Dunbar, after the discovery of his son's folly, as he called it, was colder and more reserved than before. He was disappointed, and had lost, to some extent, confidence in his son. If, in the outset, he could commit such a fatal mistake, what surety was there for the future? "None at all," he said to himself. "He will start aside at every false allurement."