lling the judgment of his daughter.

Henrietta Temple, the most affectionate and dutiful of children, left to
reflect, sometimes asked herself whether she were justified, from
what she endeavoured to believe was a mere morbid feeling, in not
accomplishing the happiness of that parent who loved her so well? There
had been no concealment of her situation, or of her sentiments. There
had been no deception as to the past. Lord Montfort knew all. She told
him that she could bestow only a broken spirit. Lord Montfort aspired
only to console it. She was young. It was not probable that the death
which she had once sighed for would be accorded to her. Was she always
to lead this life? Was her father to pass the still long career which
probably awaited him in ministering to the wearisome caprices of a
querulous invalid? This was a sad return for all his goodness: a gloomy
catastrophe to all his bright hopes. And if she could ever consent to
blend her life with another's, what individual could offer pretensions
which might ensure her tranquillity, or even happiness, equal to those
proffered by Lord Montfort? Ah! who was equal to him? so amiable, so
generous, so interesting! It was in such a mood of mind that Henrietta
would sometimes turn with a glance of tenderness and gratitude to that
being who seemed to breathe only for her solace and gratification. If
it be agonising to be deserted, there is at least consolation in being
cherished. And who cherished her? One whom all admired; one to gain
whose admiration, or even attention, every woman sighed. What was she
before she knew Montfort? If she had not known Montfort, what would she
have been even at this present? She recalled the hours of anguish,
the long days of bitter mortification, the dull, the wearisome, the
cheerless, hopeless, uneventful hours that were her lot when lying on
her solitary sofa at Pisa, brooding over the romance of Armine and all
its passion; the catastrophe of Ducie, and all its baseness. And now
there was not a moment without kindness, without sympathy, without
considerate attention and innocent amusement. If she were querulous, no
one murmured; if she were capricious, everyone yielded to her fancies;
but if she smiled, everyone was happy. Dear, noble Montfort, thine
was the magic that had worked this change! And for whom were all these
choice exertions made? For one whom another had trifled with, deserted,
betrayed! And Montfort knew it. He dedicated his l