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departure without a word to her, had broken her spirits, and she sank beneath the load of sorrow.
The Intendant left her to recover herself before he again addressed her. When she had ceased sobbing, her father spoke to her in a very kind voice, begging her that she would not conceal anything from him, as it was most important to him that the real facts should be known.
"Now tell me, my child, what passed between Edward and you."
"He told me, just before you came up to us that evening, that he loved me."
"And what was your reply?"
"I hardly know, my dear father, what it was that I said. I did not like to be unkind to one who saved my life, and I did not choose to say what I thought, because—because—because he was of low birth; and how could I give encouragement to the son of a forester without your permission?"
"Then you rejected him?"
"I suppose I did, or that he considered that I did so. He had a secret of importance that he would have confided to me had you not interrupted us."
"And now, Patience, I must request you to answer me one question candidly. I do not blame you for your conduct, which was correct under the circumstances. I also had a secret which I perhaps ought to have confided; but I did consider that the confidence and paternal kindness with which I treated Edward would have been sufficient to point out to you that I could not have been very averse to an union;—indeed, the freedom of communication which I allowed between you, must have told you so:—but your sense of duty and propriety has made you act as you ought to have done, I grant, although contrary to my real wishes."
"Your wishes, my father?" said Patience.
"Yes—my wishes; there is nothing that I so ardently de-
