even wish her to take the veil; she said "an act of obedience to her father, in becoming a wife, would be more acceptable to Heaven."
"I can never marry any other than Glentworth."
"You are mistaken, Margarita; your affection has been nourished by those frequent meetings, and that constant correspondence, from which I have vainly tried to divert you; the parting must now be entire and complete, for both your sakes, and the love still lingering will naturally expire. He is now rich enough, I should suppose, and will return to England, and, most likely, marry. I trust he will be happy; I wish him well. I forgive him fully the many years of sorrow he has brought on me, for he brought it innocently, and he has suffered severely. We will speak of him no more; I fully rely on your promise."
When Glentworth again presented himself, the countess had been some days in her grave; and he received from the bereaved husband and disappointed father information which for ever closed the dream of young love, the expectation of matured affection. He saw Margarita for a few moments only; she was like a faded flower, but her conduct was that of a firm or rather an exhausted spirit. In truth, she then believed that she had ceased to love; that the penances to which she had submitted had exorcised the demon, which it was her duty to expel.
This long, sad waste of life and happiness, though told in few pages, might, in its details of trying scenes,
