“As he had banished from his heart the memory of a guilty son, so, also, he appears to have forgotten that a daughter, whose sole offence was love, has often sued for pardon, and sued in vain. Dead, apparently, to human passions, and wrapped in gloomy reveries of religion without any thing of its charities, he mistakes ascetic indifference for submission to that Will which rules the fate of mortals. In every thing he is directed by his confessor, and report affirms that he has bequeathed his fortune and estates to the uses of the Church of Rome. I have heard that you bear a striking likeness to your mother. Could you but meet this cold old man, possibly some spark of kindred love might still be latent in the heart, and in the living child, he might happily be forced to recollect the long-estranged mother. But to obtain that meeting is the difficulty. Surrounded by priests and spies, your very name, if known, would bar you from his presence. I have taken measures to ascertain what are the old man’s habits, and how an interview might be accomplished. The experiment may fail--but still it is worth the trial. “Why have I enlarged on what you knew partially already?--the fall of William Clifford. Only to show, by startling truths, that imprudence is too generally the path to crime; and that your career, unless arrested as it was by me, might have ended fatally as your uncle’s did.” “Never!” I exclaimed, passionately; “a fool I might be--a villain, never.” “And so thought young Clifford once--but no more of this. I feel convinced that your fancy for play and dangerous acquaintances is ended.” “Indeed, Mr. Hartley, I see my folly in its true colours.” “And now for bed,” he replied. “You to your hotel, and I to my chamber. Let me see you early to-morrow. Should business have called me from home, you will find Isidora, and her sable genius, Dominique.” “You never travel far without your black attendant,” I remarked. “He never leaves us; and for twenty years, amidst all its storm and sunshine, he has followed my fortunes with devoted fidelity. Next to that of my child, the greatest loss Heaven could inflict would be to take from me that faithful negro. He comes.--Show Mr. O’Halloran down stairs.--Once more, good night.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “One word more, friend Hector,” he added with a smile; “you need not lose time in a visit to Jermyn-street--the birds have flown!”