“I admire your filial affection,” said the Abbot; “It proves the excellence and sensibility of your character; It promises a treasure to him whom Heaven has destined to possess your affections. The Breast, so capable of fondness for a Parent, what will it feel for a Lover? Nay, perhaps, what feels it for one even now? Tell me, my lovely Daughter; Have you known what it is to love? Answer me with sincerity: Forget my habit, and consider me only as a Friend.” “What it is to love?” said She, repeating his question; “Oh! yes, undoubtedly; I have loved many, many People.” “That is not what I mean. The love of which I speak can be felt only for one. Have you never seen the Man whom you wished to be your Husband?” “Oh! No, indeed!” This was an untruth, but She was unconscious of its falsehood: She knew not the nature of her sentiments for Lorenzo; and never having seen him since his first visit to Elvira, with every day his Image grew less feebly impressed upon her bosom. Besides, She thought of an Husband with all a Virgin’s terror, and negatived the Friar’s demand without a moment’s hesitation. “And do you not long to see that Man, Antonia? Do you feel no void in your heart which you fain would have filled up? Do you heave no sighs for the absence of some one dear to you, but who that some one is, you know not? Perceive you not that what formerly could please, has charms for you no longer? That a thousand new wishes, new ideas, new sensations, have sprang in your bosom, only to be felt, never to be described? Or while you fill every other heart with passion, is it possible that your own remains insensible and cold? It cannot be! That melting eye, that blushing cheek, that enchanting voluptuous melancholy which at times overspreads your features, all these marks belye your words. You love, Antonia, and in vain would hide it from me.” “Father, you amaze me! What is this love of which you speak? I neither know its nature, nor if I felt it, why I should conceal the sentiment.” “Have you seen no Man, Antonia, whom though never seen before, you seemed long to have sought? Whose form, though a Stranger’s, was familiar to your eyes? The sound of whose voice soothed you, pleased you, penetrated to your very soul? In whose presence you rejoiced, for whose absence you lamented? With whom your heart seemed to expand, and in whose bosom with confidence unbounded you reposed the cares of your own? Have you not felt all this, Antonia?” “Certainly I have: The first time that I saw you, I felt it.” Ambrosio started. Scarcely dared He credit his hearing. “Me, Antonia?” He cried, his eyes sparkling with delight and impatience, while He seized her hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips. “Me, Antonia? You felt these sentiments for me?”