night before me?"

He did not answer,--he only pressed me convulsively to his heart, and I
felt one hot tear, and then another and another falling on my brow.

Oh! it is cruel to wring tears from the strong heart of man; cruel,
above all, to wring them from a father's heart,--that heart whose own
sorrows had lately bled afresh. Every drop fell heavy and burning as
molten lead on my conscience. I had been yielding to a selfish burst of
grief, thoughtless of the agony I was inflicting.

"Forgive me, father!" I cried, "forgive me! On my knees, too, I will
pray my Heavenly Father to forgive the rebel who dares to murmur at his
chastisements, when new and priceless blessings gladden her life. I
thought I had learned submission,--and I have, father, I have kissed in
love and faith the Almighty hand that laid me low. This has been a dark
moment, but it is passed."

I kissed his hand, and pressed it softly over my glistening eyes.

"Forgive you, my child!" he repeated, "for a sorrow so natural, so
legitimate, and which has so much to justify it! I have wondered at your
fortitude and disinterested interest in others,--I have wondered at your
Christian submission, your unmurmuring resignation, and I wonder still.
But you must not consider your destiny as inevitably sad and lonely. You
have not had time yet to receive tidings from India. If, after the
letter you have written, your husband does not return with a heart
broken by penitence and remorse, and his dark and jealous passions slain
by the sword of conviction, piercing two-edged and sharp to the very
marrow of his spirit, he is not worthy of thee, my spotless, precious
child; and the illusion of love will pass away, showing him to be
selfish, tyrannical, and cruel, a being to be shunned and pitied, but no
longer loved. Do not shudder at the picture I have drawn. The soul that
speaks from those eyes of thousand meanings," added he, looking at the
portrait that gazed upon us with powerful and thrilling glance, "must
have some grand and redeeming qualities. I trust in God that it will
rise above the ashes of passion, purified and regenerated. Then your
happiness will have a new foundation, whose builder and maker is God."

"Oh! dear father!" was all I could utter. He spoke like one who had the
gift of prophecy, and my spirit caught the inspiration of his words.

I have not spoken of Richard, for I had so much to say of my father, but
I did not forget him. He accompanied