I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, but too just accusation, but I made no answer.

“Tell me, I beseech you, what I have done, and how to deserve your pardon.”

“Oh, my lord!” I cried, “I have never dreamt of offence; if there is any pardon to be asked it is rather for me than for you to ask it.”

“You are all sweetness and condescension!” cried he; “but will you pardon a question essentially important to me?  Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?”

“No, my lord!” answered I, with firmness, “none in the world.  He is the last man who would have any influence over my conduct.”

Just then Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went in to breakfast.  When she spoke of my journey a cloud overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and on Mrs. Selwyn asking me to seek some books for her in the parlour, I was followed by Lord Orville.  He shut the door, and approached me with a look of great anxiety.

“You are going, then,” he cried, taking my hand, “and you give me not the smallest hope of your return?”

“Oh, my lord!” I said, “surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me!”

“Mock you!” repeated he earnestly.  “No, I revere you!  You are dearer to me than language has the power of telling!”

I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraved on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition; nor would he suffer me to escape until he had drawn from me the most sacred secret of my heart!

To be loved by Lord Orville, to be the honoured choice of his noble heart—­my happiness seems too infinite to be borne.

* * * * *

I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind, but I will not now lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend an account of the transactions of the day.

Mrs. Selwyn and I went early in Mrs. Beaumont’s chariot to see my father, Sir John Belmont What a moment for your Evelina when, taking my hand, she led me forward into his presence.  An involuntary scream escaped me; covering my face with my hands, I sank on the floor.

He had, however, seen me first, for in a voice scarce articulate he exclaimed, “My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live?  Lift up thy head, if my sight has not blasted thee, thou image of my long-lost Caroline!”

Affected beyond measure, I half arose and embraced his knees.

“Yes, yes,” cried he, looking earnestly in my face, “I see thou art her child!  She lives, she is present to my view!”

“Yes, sir,” cried I, “it is your child if you will own her!”

He knelt by my side, and folded me in his arms.  “Own thee!” he repeated, “yes, my poor girl, and heaven knows with what bitter contrition!”

* * * * *

All is over, my dearest sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided!  This morning, with tearful joy, and trembling gratitude, she united herself for ever with the object of her dearest, eternal affection.