"Stay, Mr. Vernon," interrupted his guest; "do not say what you will soon regret—I am
about to depart."
"And whither do you purpose going?"
"To London."
Vernon started from his seat in astonishment—"To London?—to the city of destruction—to the Babylon of the earth—to the sinful and the accursed—where the devil walks abroad, seeking whom he may devour? So young, so friendless, and so fair—you are mad, maiden! mad with sorrow—or pride!"
"I answer to myself—London is the only place where my poor skill in embroidery may find employment; and Hannah has a sister there, with whom we mean to reside."
Vernon walked up and down the room impatiently; at last he stopped before Rebecca, and said, in a voice whose firmness was only preserved by an effort—"Maiden, when I bore you insensible to my house, I thought within myself, that neither by word nor look would I give you cause of annoyance—that I would forbear to urge upon the sacredness of sorrow a suit which that very sorrow makes more earnest. But I cannot, were it only as the daughter of my friend, I cannot see you take a step so rash, so fraught with fatal consequences. Pause, Rebecca, before you depart from my roof. I may not be what your fancy figures; but I love you deeply and truly, and for your sake would
