the house, fearing the rebuke of her father; the door was locked, and no chastisement was now expected. Squire Valeer, whose pride was already touched, resolved to preserve the dignity of his family. He entered the house almost exhausted, looking wildly for Ambulinia. ‘Amazed and astonished indeed I am,’ said he, ‘at a people who call themselves civilised, to allow such behaviour as this. Ambulinia, Ambulinia!’ he cried, ‘come to the calls of your first, your best, and your only friend. I appeal to you, sir,’ turning to the gentleman of the house, ‘to know where Ambulinia has gone, or where is she?’ ‘Do you mean to insult me, sir, in my own house?’ inquired the confounded gentleman. ‘I will burst,’ said Mr. V., ‘asunder every door in your dwelling, in search of my daughter, if you do not speak quickly, and tell me where she is. I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation, that mean, low-lived Elfonzo, if I can but obtain Ambulinia! Are you not going to open this door?’ said he. ‘By the Eternal that made heaven and earth! I will go about the work instantly, if it is not done.’ The confused citizens gathered from all parts of the village to know the cause of this commotion. Some rushed into the house; the door that was locked flew open, and there stood Ambulinia, weeping. ‘Father, be still,’ said she, ‘and I will follow thee home.’ But the agitated man seized her, and bore her off through the gazing multitude. ‘Father,’ she exclaimed, ‘I humbly beg your pardon—I will be dutiful—I will obey thy commands. Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience to thee be my future security.’ ‘I don’t like to be always giving credit, when the old score is not paid up, madam,’ said the father. The mother followed almost in a state of derangement, crying and imploring her to think beforehand, and ask advice from experienced persons, and they would tell her it was a rash undertaking. ‘Oh!’ said she, ‘Ambulinia, my daughter, did you know what I have suffered—did you know how many nights I have whiled away in agony, in pain, and in fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken mother.’