g repentance upon his bosom, he dared to say, 'Oh! my Henrietta,
you did not doubt your Ferdinand?'

'Dearest Ferdinand, you are too good, too kind, too faultless, and I am
very wicked.'

Taking her hand and covering it with kisses, he said in a distinct, but
very low voice, 'Now tell me, why were you unhappy?'

'Papa,' sighed Henrietta, 'dearest papa, that the day should come when I
should grieve to meet him!'

'And why should my darling grieve?' said Ferdinand.

'I know not; I ask myself, what have I done? what have I to fear? It is
no crime to love; it may be a misfortune; God knows that I have almost
felt to-night that such it was. But no, I never will believe it can be
either wrong or unhappy to love you.'

'Bless you, for such sweet words,' replied Ferdinand. 'If my heart can
make you happy, felicity shall be your lot.'

'It is my lot. I am happy, quite happy, and grateful for my happiness.'

'And your father-our father, let me call him [she pressed his hand when
he said this]--he will be happy too?'

'So I would hope.'

'If the fulfilment of my duty can content him,' continued Ferdinand,
'Mr. Temple shall not repent his son-in-law.'

'Oh! do not call him Mr. Temple; call him father. I love to hear you
call him father.'

'Then what alarms my child?'

'I hardly know,' said Henrietta in a hesitating tone. 'I think--I think
it is the suddenness of all this. He has gone, he comes again; he went,
he returns; and all has happened. So short a time, too, Ferdinand. It is
a life to us; to him, I fear,' and she hid her face, 'it is only------a
fortnight.'

'We have seen more of each other, and known more of each other, in this
fortnight, than we might have in an acquaintance which had continued a
life.'

'That's true, that's very true. We feel this, Ferdinand, because we know
it. But papa will not feel like us: we cannot expect him to feel like
us. He does not know my Ferdinand as I know him. Papa, too, though
the dearest, kindest, fondest father that ever lived, though he has
no thought but for my happiness and lives only for his daughter, papa
naturally is not so young as we are. He is, too, what is called a man of
the world. He has seen a great deal; he has formed his opinions of men
and life. We cannot expect that he will change them in your, I mean in
our favour. Men of the world are of the world, worldly. I do not think
they are always right; I do not myself believe in their infallibility.
There is