and I—­youth vanished in approaching age, were weeping at his timely dissolution.  But it was not so, I was yet young, Oh! far too young, nor was he dead to others; but I, most miserable, must never see or speak to him again.  I must fly from him with more earnestness than from my greatest enemy:  in solitude or in cities I must never more behold him.  That consideration made me breathless with anguish, and impressing itself on my imagination I was unable for a time to follow up any train of ideas.  Ever after this, I thought, I would live in the most dreary seclusion.  I would retire to the Continent and become a nun; not for religion’s sake, for I was not a Catholic, but that I might be for ever shut out from the world.  I should there find solitude where I might weep, and the voices of life might never reach me.

But my father; my beloved and most wretched father?  Would he die?  Would he never overcome the fierce passion that now held pityless dominion over him?  Might he not many, many years hence, when age had quenched the burning sensations that he now experienced, might he not then be again a father to me?  This reflection unwrinkled my brow, and I could feel (and I wept to feel it) a half melancholy smile draw from my lips their expression of suffering:  I dared indulge better hopes for my future life; years must pass but they would speed lightly away winged by hope, or if they passed heavily, still they would pass and I had not lost my father for ever.  Let him spend another sixteen years of desolate wandering:  let him once more utter his wild complaints to the vast woods and the tremendous cataracts of another clime:  let him again undergo fearful danger and soul-quelling hardships:  let the hot sun of the south again burn his passion worn cheeks and the cold night rains fall on him and chill his blood.

To this life, miserable father, I devote thee!—­Go!—­Be thy days passed with savages, and thy nights under the cope of heaven!  Be thy limbs worn and thy heart chilled, and all youth be dead within thee!  Let thy hairs be as snow; thy walk trembling and thy voice have lost its mellow tones!  Let the liquid lustre of thine eyes be quenched; and then return to me, return to thy Mathilda, thy child, who may then be clasped in thy loved arms, while thy heart beats with sinless emotion.  Go, Devoted One, and return thus!—­This is my curse, a daughter’s curse:  go, and return pure to thy child, who will never love aught but thee.

These were my thoughts; and with trembling hands I prepared to begin a letter to my unhappy parent.  I had now spent many hours in tears and mournful meditation; it was past twelve o’clock; all was at peace in the house, and the gentle air that stole in at my window did not rustle the leaves of the twining plants that shadowed it.  I felt the entire tranquillity of the hour when my own breath and involuntary sobs were all the sounds that struck upon the air.  On a sudden I heard a gentle step ascending the stairs; I paused breathless, and as it approached glided into an obscure corner of the room; the steps paused at my door, but after a few moments they again receeded[,] descended the stairs and I heard no more.