Immediately on the decease of her friend and father, Julia returned home, and in three months Frederic followed her to fulfil his promise. He was wretched, and would have given a world, had he possessed it, to be free from his engagement. But that could never be. His word had been given to his father, and must be religiously redeemed. “I will make her my wife,” thought he; “I promised my father that I would. Thank heaven, I never promised him that I would love her!” Repugnant as such an union was to his feelings, he was really impatient to have it completed; for as his idea of his duty and obligation went not beyond the bare act of making her his wife, he felt that, that once done, he should be comparatively a free man. “I am come,” said he to Julia, “to fulfil my engagement. Will you name a day for the ceremony?” His countenance was so gloomy, his manners so cold—so utterly destitute of tenderness or kindly feeling, that something like terror seized Julia's heart; and without making any reply, she burst into tears. “Why these tears, Miss Horton?” said he. “Our mutual promise was given to my father; it is fit we redeem it.” “No particular time was specified,” said Julia timidly, and with a faltering voice. “Is so much haste necessary?” “My father wished that no unnecessary delay should be made,” said Frederic, “and I can see no reason why we should not as well be married now, as at any future period. If you consult my wishes, you will name an early day.” The day was fixed, and at length arrived, presenting the singular anomaly of a man eagerly hastening to the altar, to utter vows from which his heart recoiled, and a woman going to it with trembling and reluctance, though about to be united to him who possessed her undivided affections.