forgotten that name in her devotions?

LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand
you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes
too late. I can no longer pray, father. Heaven and Ferdinand divide my
bleeding soul, and I fear--I fear--(after a pause). Yet no, no, good
father. The painter is best praised when we forget him in the
contemplation of his picture. When in the contemplation of his
masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator,--is not that,
father, the true praise of God?

MILLER (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). There we have it!
Those are the fruits of your ungodly reading.

LOUISA (uneasy, goes to the window). Where can he be now? Ah! the
high-born ladies who see him--listen to him----I am a poor forgotten
maiden. (Startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) But no, no!
forgive me. I do not repine at my lot. I ask but little--to think on
him--that can harm no one. Ah! that I might breathe out this little
spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his check! That this
fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and I
die modestly beneath his feet! I ask no more, father! Can the proud,
majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays?

MILLER (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his
face). My child, my child, with joy would I sacrifice the remnant of my
days hadst thou never seen the major.

LOUISA (terrified.) How; how? What did you say? No, no! that could not
be your meaning, good father. You know not that Ferdinand is mine! You