ar and
precious to me she would have been, this offspring of my first love, of
my earliest and purest beliefs--or, rather, my young illusions! I should
have poured out on this innocent creature those treasures of affection
of which her hateful mother is so unworthy; and it seems to me that, as
I have dreamt, this child, by the beauty of her mind, the charm of her
qualities, would have soothed and softened all my griefs, all these
pangs of remorse, which are, alas, attached to her fatal birth."

"Monseigneur, I see with grief the increasing empire which these
regrets, as vain as they are bitter, assume over your mind."

After some moments' silence, Rodolph said to Murphy:

"I will now make a confession to you, my old friend. I love--yes, I
passionately love--a woman worthy of the noblest, the most devoted
affection. Since my heart has again expanded to all the sweetness of
love, since I am thus again affected by tender emotions, I feel more
deeply than ever the loss of my daughter. I might have feared that an
attachment of the heart would weaken the bitterness of my regrets. It is
not so; all my loving qualities--my affections--are but the keener. I
feel myself better, more charitable; and more than ever is it afflicting
to me not to have my daughter to adore."

"Nothing more easily explained, monseigneur,--forgive me the
comparison,--but, as certain men have a joyous and benevolent
intoxication, so you have good and generous love."

"Still, my hatred of the wicked has become more intense; my aversion for
Sarah increases, in proportion, no doubt, to the grief I experience at
my daughter's death. I imagine to myself that that wretched mother must
have neglected her, and that, when once her ambitious hopes were ruined
by my marriage, the countess, in her pitiless selfishness, abandoned our
daughter to mercenary hands, and, perhaps, my child died from actual
neglect. It is my fault, also. I did not then think of the sacred duties
which paternity imposes. When Sarah's real character was suddenly
revealed to me, I ought instantly to have taken my daughter from her,
and watched over her with love and anxiety. I ought to have foreseen
that the countess would make but a very unnatural mother. It is my
fault,--yes, indeed, my fault."

"Monseigneur, grief distracts you! Could you, after the sad event you
know of, delay for a day the long journey imposed on you, as--"

"As an expiator! You are right, my friend," said Rodolph