"Papa! I cannot leave you. Do not bid me," I cried, eagerly, encouraged by his tone; "to go away now would kill me. Father, father! have you no pity upon me? you cannot have the heart to send me away!" "I have the heart to do all I think right, Hester!" said my father, sternly. "I am the last man in the world to speak to of pity. Pity has ruined me; and I will do what is right, and not a false kindness to my only child. This lover of yours is your own choice--remember at all times he is your own choice. I _might_ have made a wiser selection. I might not have made so good a one. The probability is in your favor; but, however it happens, recollect it is your own election, and that I wash my hands of the matter. But I insist on the condition I have told you of. What we have to do, we must do quickly. There is time enough for all necessary preparations, Hester." I had taken my seat again in the dull and mortified sullenness of rejected affection and unappreciated feelings. Preparations! was it that I cared for? I had no spirit to speak again. I rather was pleased to give up with a visible bad grace all choice and wish in the matter. "You do not answer me," said my father; "is my substantial reason too little to satisfy your punctilio, Hester? are you afraid of what the world will say?" "No! I know no world to be afraid of," said I, almost rudely, but with bitter tears coming to my eyes; "if you care so little for me, I do not mind for myself if it was to-morrow." "I do not choose it to be to-morrow, however," said my father, with only a smile at my pique, "there are some things necessary beforehand besides white satin and orange flowers. Alice has arranged your dress before, you had better consult with her, and to-morrow I will give you a sum sufficient for your equipment; that is enough, I think, Hester. Neither of us seems to have any peculiar delight in the subject. I consider the matter settled so far as personal discussion between us goes--matters of arrangement we can manage at our leisure." He drew his book to him, and opened it as he spoke. When he began to read, he seemed to withdraw from me into his retirement, abstracted and composed, leaving me in the tumult of my thoughts to subside into quietness as I best could. I sat still for some time, leaning back in my chair, gnawing at my heart; but I could not bear it--and then I rose up to walk up and down from window to window, my father taking no note of me--what I did. As I wandered about in this restless and wretched way, I saw the lights in the college windows, shining through the half-closed curtain. He was there, brave, generous, simple heart! I woke out of my great mortification and grief, to a delight of rest and relaxation. Yes, he was there; that was his light shining in his window, and he was sitting close by it looking out upon this place which enclosed me and mine. I knew his thoughts now, and what he was doing, and I knew he was thinking of me.