“Percy is, indeed, all my heart could wish,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, still somewhat sadly; “but his disposition is different to that of Caroline’s.  I know his confidence in me is such, and his affection so strong, that for my sake he would do more than those who but slightly know him would imagine.  When a son really loves his mother, it is a different, perhaps a more fervid, feeling than that ever known by a daughter.  He feels bound to protect, to cherish, and that very knowledge of power heightens his affections.”

“You do not doubt your daughters’ love, my Emmeline? must I accuse you of injustice too?”

“No, dearest Arthur, I do not doubt their love; for my Emmeline I do not tremble.  Her confidence I shall never lose; her affections, however I may be called upon to exert my authority, will never waver, and completely opposite as are the feelings with which she and Percy regard me, their love may be equally intense.  But forgive me, my dear husband, I may be unjust, and if I am may my child forgive me; I am not—­oh, that I were—­equally confident in my Caroline.  She loves me, but that affection, I know, does not prevent her thinking me harsh and unkind, if my wishes interfere with hers.  My authority is not the same with her as it is to her sister and cousin.  She seeks another confidential friend besides her mother, for she dreads my opinions differing from hers.  I have marked her thus in early childhood, and it still exists, though her temper is more controlled, her disposition, more improved.  The last few years she has been thrown almost entirely with me, and not much above a twelvemonth since she shrunk from the idea of confiding in any one as she did in me.”

“And while that confidence exists, my Emmeline, you surely have no right to fear.”

“But it is waning, Arthur.  The last month I know, I feel it is decreasing.  She is no longer the same open-hearted girl with me as she was so lately at Oakwood.  She is withdrawing her confidence from her mother, to bestow it on one whom I feel assured is unworthy of it.”

“Nay, Emmeline, your anxiety must be blinding you; you are too anxious.”

His wife answered him not in words, but she raised her expressive eyes to his face, and he saw they were filled with tears.

“Nay, nay, my beloved!” he exclaimed, as he folded her to his bosom, struck with sudden self-reproach.  “Have my unkind words called forth these tears? forgive me, my best love; I think I love my children, but I know not half the depths of a mother’s tenderness, my Emmeline, nor that clear-sightedness which calls for disquietude so much sooner in her gentle heart than in a father’s.  But can we in no way prevent the growth of that intimacy of which I know you disapprove?”