Yes, take it! You can learn more from it, than I am able to say. He ought to have given this to another to do, not to me. I promised myself pleasure from it; but you turn my joy into sadness. SARA. Give it me, honest Waitwell! But no! I will not take it before you tell me what it contains. WAITWELL. What can it contain? Love and forgiveness. SARA. Love? Forgiveness? WAITWELL. And perhaps a real regret, that he used the rights of a father's power against a child, who should only have the privileges of a father's kindness. SARA. Then keep your cruel letter. WAITWELL. Cruel? Have no fear. Full liberty is granted you over your heart and hand. SARA. And it is just this which I fear. To grieve a father such as he, this I have had the courage to do. But to see him forced by this very grief-by his love which I have forfeited, to look with leniency on all the wrong into which an unfortunate passion has led me; this, Waitwell, I could not bear. If his letter contained all the hard and angry words which an exasperated father can utter in such a case, I should read it--with a shudder it is true--but still I should be able to read it. I should be able to produce a shadow of defence against his wrath, to make him by this defence if possible more angry still. My consolation then would be this-that melancholy grief could have no place with violent wrath and that the latter would transform itself finally into bitter contempt. And we grieve no more for one whom we despise. My father would have grown calm again, and I would not have to reproach myself with having made him unhappy for ever. WAITWELL. Alas, Miss! You will have to reproach yourself still less for this if you now accept his love again, which wishes only to forget everything. SARA.