ther's chamber--she crossed the long corridor and reached her own
saloon without opposition. There she threw a melancholy glance on the
objects around, and heaved a bitter sigh when she beheld every thing in
which she formerly took delight remaining in the same situation as when
she had left them. Her books were scattered about, and her guitar was
thrown carelessly upon the sofa where she had last sung a mournful
romance previously to her meeting her lover in the garden. It was a
rapid glance Theodora cast, and yet, alas! what a world of keen
sensations did it produce. Every thing around bespoke the disconsolate
tranquillity of a deserted home. Theodora at length gained her father's
apartment; the door was closed, but she listened, and distinctly heard
the murmur of disease. She gently knocked; an old female attendant
opened the door--Theodora rushed in, and threw herself at the feet of
Monteblanco's couch.

"Oh! my father!" she cried, and her agony denying her the powers of
utterance, silent she sank by the bedside; yet the violent respiration
and the smothered groaning which escaped from her bosom but too plainly
told the full measure of her sorrow.

"Who is this?" feebly inquired the old man, as those sounds of distress
snatched him from the feverish and troubled slumber of disease.

"Your daughter! your guilty, your unfortunate Theodora! Oh, my father, I
come but to crave your forgiveness and die."

Prostrate and weakened as Don Manuel was, the sound of his daughter's
voice, and her pathetic appeal, awakened all his latent feelings, and
gave a new impulse to his decaying frame.

"Theodora! my child! my child!" he cried, raising himself on the couch;
and as the sombre reflection of a dim lamp fell on the form before him,
he was chilled with horror and amazement. He saw his Theodora; for the
eyes of a father will always recognise his child, spite of the blasting
influence of misfortune in disguising the features. He recognised his
daughter, but alas! how changed was that model of female loveliness and
beauty. Sunk was that eye, and quenched its pure and brilliant fire; the
smile of innocence had fled from those lips, and the soft delicate tint
of her countenance was chased away by a deadly paleness. But still
Theodora was interesting and lovely; still Monteblanco gazed on her with
the tender fondness of a parent. He rose superior to the malady which
confined his withered frame to the couch of sickness; the film of