hese tears are not only
unworthy of you, but they are uncalled for now. This is at last but
conjecture of mine, and I have no doubt that Hansford is well and as
happy as he can be away from you. But you would have proved a sad
heroine in the revolution. I don't think you would imitate successfully
the bravery and patriotism of Lady Willoughby, whose memoirs you have
been reading. Oh! that was a day for heroism, when mothers devoted their
sons, and wives their husbands, to the cause of England and of loyalty,
almost without a tear."

"I thank God," said the weeping girl, "that he has not placed me in such
trying scenes. With all my admiration for the courage of my ancestors, I
have no ambition to suffer their dangers and distress."

"Well, my dear," replied her father, "I trust you may never be called
upon to do so. But if such should be your fate, I also trust that you
have a strong heart, which would bear you through the trial. Come now,
dry your tears, and let me hear you sing that old favorite of mine,
written by poor Dick Lovelace. His Lucasta[5] must have been something
of the same mind as my Virginia, if she reproved him for deserting her
for honour."

"Oh, father, I feel the justice of your rebuke. I know that none but a
brave woman deserves the love of a brave man. Will you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, my daughter?--yes, if you have done anything to be
forgiven. Your old father, though his head is turned gray, has still a
warm place in his heart for all your distresses, my child; and that
heart will be cold in death before it ceases to feel for you. But come,
I must not lose my song, either."

And Virginia, her sweet voice rendered more touchingly beautiful by her
emotion, sang the noble lines, which have almost atoned for all the
vanity and foppishness of their unhappy author.

"Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
If from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

"True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
The sword, the horse, the shield.

"Yet, this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more!"

"Yes," repeated the old patriot, as the last notes of the sweet voice
died away; "yes, 'I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not
honour more!' This is the language of the truly noble lover. Without