“Indeed, I did not.” “Nor when I left you did I anticipate that my return would be so sudden. Circumstances, which for a time must remain unexplained, have rendered it imperative that I should claim you, and our marriage no longer shall be secret.” “Heaven be praised!” I murmured. “To-night, Julia, you shall go with me.” “To-night! impossible! My father’s proud, he never would consent that his daughter should steal from her home.” “Your father? He shall know nothing of it. No, Julia, we must leave the cottage privately; and, for a brief season, duty to the parent must give place to the stronger claims of wedded love.” “Am I dreaming? Seymour,--what would you have me do? Desert my father heartlessly, and leave the good old man without humbling myself at his feet, and begging the pardon I require,--the forgiveness he would grant? Fly from this once happy home!--‘Twould break my father’s heart.--I’ll never do it.” “Then, Julia, we part for ever.” “Part for ever! Seymour. Do I hear aright? Is this, indeed, your voice? and do _you_ tell her who proved her love at the expense of filial duty, that she must either fly from her home like a guilty woman, or be deserted by the man who led her into error?” Seymour perceived the threat of parting had produced a different effect to what he had expected, and at once he changed his tone to that of entreaty and persuasion; and, with admirable tact, appealed to my feelings and my love. He pleaded that the separation from my father would be but brief. I should return united to one whose position in society was far above my own. My parent’s anger would be shortlived, and his sorrow would be turned into joy. Where a woman’s heart is advocate, her mind is easily convinced. I yielded a reluctant consent; and before we parted, it was arranged that in two hours I should be ready to accompany him, and quit a happy home to follow the fortunes of an unknown lover. I packed some clothes, and addressed an exculpatory letter to my father, breaking to him as gently as I could, the sad tidings that his daughter had deserted him. Many a tear blistered the paper while I wrote. He was in bed--possibly sleeping. I stole softly down to place the billet on his table--but he heard the door unclose, and inquired “if that were Julia!” “Yes, my father; I come to say, Good night.” The old man kissed me tenderly; and with unusual solemnity muttered as I left the room, “Child of my heart; may God for ever bless thee!” They were the last words I ever heard him speak.