'Your language is much too free, Laura, as your notions are too rigid. Is it dutiful, think you, to use such expressions in regard to a connexion which your father approves? Will you call it virtue to sport with your own happiness, with the peace of a heart that doats upon you--with the comfort of your dying parent?' 'Oh my father,' cried Laura, sinking on her knees, 'my spirit is already bowed to the earth--do not crush it with your displeasure. Rather support my feeble resolution, lest, knowing the right, I should not have power to choose it.' 'My heart's treasure,' said Montreville, kissing the tears from her eyes, 'short ever is my displeasure with thee: for I know that though inexperience may mislead thy judgment, no pleasure can bribe, no fear betray thy inflexible rectitude. Go on then--convince me if thou canst, that thou art in the right to choose thy portion amidst self-denial, and obscurity, and dependence.' 'Would that I were able to convince you,' returned Laura, 'and then you would no longer add to the difficulties of this fearful struggle. Tell me then, were Colonel Hargrave your son, and were I what I cannot name, could any passion excuse, any circumstances induce you to sanction the connexion for which you now plead?' 'My dear love,' said Montreville, 'the cases are widely different. The world's opinion affixes just disgrace to the vices in your sex, which in ours it views with more indulgent eyes.' 'But I,' returned Laura, 'when I took upon me the honoured name of Christian, by that very act became bound that the opinion of the world should not regulate my principles, nor its customs guide my practice. Perhaps even the worst of my sex might plead that the voice of a tempter lured them to perdition; but what tongue can speak the vileness of that tempter!--Could I promise to _obey_ him who wilfully leads others to their ruin! Could I _honour_ him who deceives the heart that trusteth in him! Could I _love_ him who could look upon a fellow creature--once the image of the highest, now humbled below the brutes that perish--upon the heir of immortality, immortal only to misery, and who could, unmoved, unpitying, seek in the fallen wretch a minister of pleasure!--Love!' continued Laura, forgetting in the deformity of the hideous image that it was capable of individual application, 'words cannot express the energy of my abhorrence!' 'Were Hargrave such--or to continue such'--said Montreville--'Hargrave!' cried Laura, almost with a shriek, 'Oh God forbid--And yet'--She covered her face with her hands, and cold drops stood on her forehead, as she remembered how just cause she had to dread that the portrait might be his. 'Hargrave,' continued Montreville, 'is not an abandoned profligate, though he may not have escaped the follies usual to men of his rank; and he has promised, if you will be favourable to him, to live henceforward in irreproachable purity. Heaven forgives the sins that are forsaken, and will you be less lenient?'