his dark eyes--that was a face of delight I never can forget; but I could not stay: I hastened to be the first to tell Berenice of her father’s safety, and of the proof which all the world had had of the falsehood of the charge against him. I ran up to the drawing-room, where she was alone. She fainted in my arms. And now you think, that when she came to herself, there was an end of all my fears, all my suspense--you think that her love, her gratitude, overcame the objection, whatever it may be, which has hitherto been called invincible--alas! you are mistaken. I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short time afterwards I received from her father the following note:-- “My obligations to you are great, so is my affection for you; but the happiness of my child, as well as your happiness, is at stake. “I dare not trust my gratitude--my daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more. “I cannot yet decide: if I shall be satisfied that the obstacle do not exist, she shall be yours; if it do exist, we sail the first of next month for America, and you, Mr. Harrington, will not be the only, or perhaps the most, unhappy person of the three. “A. MONTENERO.” CHAPTER XVI. The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs. Coates, as we were coming out of St. George’s church. She was not in full-blown, happy importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of her city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, quite “crest-fallen.” I heard some whispering that “things were going wrong at home with the Coates’s--that the world was going down hill with the alderman.” But a lady, who was quite a stranger, though she did me the honour to speak to me, explained that it was “no such thing--worth a plum still, if he be worth a farthing. ‘Tis only that she was greatly put out of her way last week, and frightened, till well nigh beside herself, by them rioters that came and set fire to one of the Coates’s, Mr. Peter’s, warehouse. Now, though poor Mrs. Coates, you’d think, is so plump and stout to look at, she is as nervous!--you’ve no notion, sir!--shakes like an aspen leaf, if she but takes a cup of green tea--so I prescribe bohea. But there she’s curtsying, and nodding, and kissing hands to you, sir, see!--and can tell you, no doubt, all about herself.” Mrs. Coates’s deplorably placid countenance, tremulous muscles, and lamentable voice and manner, confirmed to me the truth of the assertion that she had been frightened nearly out of her senses. “Why now, sir, after all,” said she, “I begin to find what fools we were, when we made such a piece of work one election year, and said that no soldiers should come into the town, ‘cause we were _free Britons_. Why, Lord ‘a mercy! ‘tis a great deal better _maxim_ to sleep safe in our beds than to be _free Britons_ and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide Mrs. Piozzi’s Letters.].”