e may think himself bound in honour to
offer me a partnership in his fortunes, as the preserver of his life. I
will owe nothing to his pity or his gratitude. I will recollect, that I
am the daughter of a noble Loyalist, irreparably injured by his rebel
father, restrain the ebullitions of youthful sensibility and unweighed
preference, and if he leaves us, part without a tear."

Nothing could be more foreign to the purposes of Lord Sedley than to
quit his adored preserver. He made no use of his release from restraint,
but to follow Isabel in her domestic occupations, nor of his returning
strength, but to try to lighten her labours. "Am I troublesome to you,"
he would say, "that you look on me less kindly; if so, I shall regret
the restoration of health and ease, and the power of again enjoying the
refreshing air and blessed light of heaven. The tenderness which made
the chamber of infirmity paradise, is withheld from me, now I have a
prospect of living to reward it."

Isabel attempted to reply, but only stammered out, "Lord Sedley!"--"I
will be known to you," said he, "by no other name than that by which I
will plight my troth, Arthur de Vallance.--What has my Isabel to say to
me in that character? I will not allow her to retract the sweet
encouragement she gave me when I was the helpless object of her tender
care. Her compassion and assiduity looked so much like love, as to cheat
me into a belief, that she who said she would die with me would consent
to make the life she preserved a blessing."

Surely, thought Isabel, this is not the language of hereditary baseness.
She cast a look on her lover which confirmed that opinion. Yet, how
could she tell him that his father's crimes formed an insuperable
barrier to their union. After much hesitation, she resolved to be as
explicit as her own respect for the feelings of filial piety would
permit. "I will own," said she, "that what fell from me in a transport
of joyful surprise, was not an unmeaning exclamation, but the confession
of a strong preference. But now that I have had time for reflection, I
must remember that you long struggled against your partiality for me,
and even now you seem rather vanquished by a combination of
circumstances and a sense of obligation, than led to make me your free
unquestioned choice. This indicates that you know of some secret reason,
some family animosity, perhaps, which ought to prevent my ever being
your wife. I am the daughter of a Loyalis