almost terror--that hastily she withdrew her glance, and remained
kneeling, bent even to the dust, long after the confession had been
poured forth, waiting in fear and anguish for his words.

"Marie, Marie! is it my Marie, my sainted Miriam's, child, who thus
speaks? who hath thus sinned sole representative of a race of ages, in
whose pure thoughts such fearful sin hath never mingled. My child so
to love the stranger as to reject, to scorn her own! Oh God, my God,
why hast thou so forsaken me? Would I had died before!" And the heavy
groan which followed, confirmed the anguish breathed in those broken
words.

"Father!" implored the unhappy girl, clasping his knees in an agony of
supplication, though she raised not her head--"Oh my father! in mercy
do not speak thus! Words of wrath, of reproach, fearful as they are
from thee, yet I can bear them, but not such woe! Oh, think what I
have borne, what I must still bear. If I have sinned, my sin will
bring, nay, it has already brought its own chastisement. Speak to me
but one word of love--or, if it must be, wrath.--but not, not such
accents of despair!"

Her father struggled to reply; but the conflux of strong emotion was
too powerful, and Marie sprung up to support him as he fell. She had
often seen him insensible before, when there appeared no cause for
such attacks; but was it strange that at such a moment she should
feel that _she_ had caused it?--that her sin perchance had killed
her father; he might never wake more to say he forgave, he blessed
her,--or that in those agonized moments of suspense she vowed, if
he might but speak again, that his will should be hers, even did it
demand the annihilation of every former treasured thought! And the vow