“Had I spared you the pain, you would never have enjoyed the delight; had I spared you the trial, you would never have had the triumph--the triumph, did I say? Better than all triumph, this sober certainty of your own integrity. If, like Lord Mowbray--but peace be to the dead! and forgiveness to his faults. My daughter was determined never to marry any man who could be induced to sacrifice religion and principle to interest or to passion. She was equally determined never to marry any man whose want of the spirit of toleration, whose prejudices against the Jews, might interfere with the filial affection she feels for her father--though he be a Jew.” “_Though_”--Gratitude, joy, love, so overwhelmed me at this moment, that I could not say another syllable; but it was enough for Mr. Montenero, deeply read as he was in the human heart. “Why did not I spare you the pain?” repeated he. “And do you think that the trial cost _me_, cost _us_ no pain?” said Mr. Montenero. “The time may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice--” “The time is come!--this moment!” cried my father; “for you see the poor fellow is burning with impatience--he would not be my son if he were not.” “That is true, indeed!” said my mother. “True--very likely,” said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. “But, impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for Berenice: after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful news, and--” “Oh! no rushing, for mercy’s sake, Harrington!” said my mother: “some consideration for Miss Montenero’s nerves!” “Nerves! nonsense, my dear,” said my father: “what woman’s nerves were ever the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move--and I am sure of one honourable gentleman to second my motion--I move that we all adjourn, forthwith, to Mr. Montenero’s.” “This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us,” said my mother. “This instant,” said Mr. Montenero, “if you will do me the honour, Mrs. Harrington.” “The carriage,” said my mother, ringing. “The carriage, directly,” cried my father to the servant as he entered. “Here’s a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go,” said my father. And away I flew, with such swiftness, that at the foot of the stairs I almost fell over Jacob. He, not knowing any thing of what had happened this morning, full of the events of the preceding night, and expecting to find me the same, began to say something about a ring which he held in his hand. “That’s all settled--all over--let me pass, good Jacob.”