ht amend this fault--not so much, I
discover when I search my mind, for the love of what is right, as for my
own sake. But even when I make these better resolutions, I instinctively
recoil from the idea of suffering again what I have undergone; and in
this circumstance I find the unwelcome assurance that I should still be
the same man, though I could cancel the past, and begin anew, with its
experience to guide me.'

'Nay, you make too sure of that,' said Edward.

'You think so,' Mr Haredale answered, 'and I am glad you do. I know
myself better, and therefore distrust myself more. Let us leave this
subject for another--not so far removed from it as it might, at first
sight, seem to be. Sir, you still love my niece, and she is still
attached to you.'

'I have that assurance from her own lips,' said Edward, 'and you know--I
am sure you know--that I would not exchange it for any blessing life
could yield me.'

'You are frank, honourable, and disinterested,' said Mr Haredale; 'you
have forced the conviction that you are so, even on my once-jaundiced
mind, and I believe you. Wait here till I come back.'

He left the room as he spoke; but soon returned with his niece. 'On that
first and only time,' he said, looking from the one to the other, 'when
we three stood together under her father's roof, I told you to quit it,
and charged you never to return.'

'It is the only circumstance arising out of our love,' observed Edward,
'that I have forgotten.'

'You own a name,' said Mr Haredale, 'I had deep reason to remember. I
was moved and goaded by recollections of personal wrong and injury, I
know, but, even now I cannot charge myself with having, then, or ever,
lost sight of a heartfelt desire for her true happiness; or with having
acted--however much I was mistaken--with any other impulse than the one
pure, single, earnest wish to be to her, as far as in my inferior nature
lay, the father she had lost.'

'Dear uncle,' cried Emma, 'I have known no parent but you. I have loved
the memory of others, but I have loved you all my life. Never was father
kinder to his child than you have been to me, without the interval of
one harsh hour, since I can first remember.'

'You speak too fondly,' he answered, 'and yet I cannot wish you were
less partial; for I have a pleasure in hearing those words, and shall
have in calling them to mind when we are far asunder, which nothing else
could give me. Bear with me for a moment longer, Edw