"I am glad you agree with me so thoroughly, Hester," said my father. "Osborne is a great advocate for this young man. He has been urging me strongly to receive him--and had you been of his opinion, Hester, I am not sure that I could have held out." This was so singular a confession from my father, that I looked up in alarm and dismay. _My_ opinion! what was that in comparison with his will? He caught my look, and came towards me slowly, and with a step less firm than usual--then he drew a chair near me, and sat down. "What I have to say, I must say in so many words," said my father. "My health is declining, Hester. I have exhausted my portion of life. I do not expect to live long." "Papa!" I exclaimed, starting up in sudden terror--the shock was so great that I almost expected to see him sink down before me then. "Papa! shall I send for the doctor? what shall I do? are you ill, father, are you ill? oh! you do not mean _that_, I know." "Sit down, my love--I am not ill now--there is nothing to be done," said my father; "only you must listen calmly, Hester, and understand what I mean. You will not be destitute when I die, but you will be unprotected. You will be a very lonely girl, I am afraid. Ignorant of society, and unaccustomed to it; and I have no friend with whom I could place you. This was the argument which Mr. Osborne urged upon me, when he advised me to receive your cousin." "Mr. Osborne was very cruel," I exclaimed, half blinded by tears, and struggling with the hysterical sobbing which rose in my throat. "He knows nothing of me if he thinks--Oh! papa, papa! what would my life be to me if things were as you say?" My father smiled upon me strangely. "Hester, you will grieve for me, I know," he said, in his quiet, unmoved tones; "but I know also the course of time and nature; and in a little while, my love, your life will be as much to you, as if I had never been." I could not utter the passionate contradiction that came to my lips. This composed and philosophic decision struck me dumb. I would rather he had thought of his daughter and of her bitter mourning for him, than of the course of time and nature. But I sat quite silent before him, trembling a great deal, and trying to suppress my tears. This doctrine, that grief is not for ever--that the heavy affliction which it is agony unspeakable to look forward to, will soften and fade, and pass away, is a great shock to a young heart. I neither could nor would believe it. What was my after life to me? But for once, I exercised self-denial, and did not say what I thought. "Shall I say any more, Hester? Can you hear me? or is this enough for a first warning?" said my father. "Oh! say all, papa, say all!" cried I. "I can bear anything now--anything after this."