Could I reconcile it to my conscience to
permit a man, innocent of all knowledge of the truth, to marry the
daughter of a condemned murderess, without honestly telling him what
he was about to do? Did I deserve to be pitied? did I deserve to be
blamed?--my mind was still undecided when I entered the house.

She ran to meet me as if she had been my daughter; she kissed me as if
she had been my daughter; she fondly looked up at me as if she had been
my daughter. At the sight of that sweet young face, so sorrowful, and
so patiently enduring sorrow, all my doubts and hesitations, everything
artificial about me with which I had entered the room, vanished in an
instant.

After she had thanked me for coming to see her, I saw her tremble a
little. The uppermost interest in her heart was forcing its way outward
to expression, try as she might to keep it back. "Have you seen Philip?"
she asked. The tone in which she put that question decided me--I was
resolved to let her marry him. Impulse! Yes, impulse, asserting itself
inexcusably in a man at the end of his life. I ought to have known
better than to have given way. Very likely. But am I the only mortal who
ought to have known better--and did not?

When Eunice asked if I had seen Philip, I owned that he was outside in
the carriage. Before she could reproach me, I went on with what I had
to say: "My child, I know what a sacrifice you have made; and I should
honor your scruples, if you had any reason for feeling them."

"Any reason for feeling them?" She turned pale as she repeated the
words.

An idea came to me. I rang for the servant, and sent her to the carriage
to tell Philip to come in. "My dear, I am not putting you to any unfair
trial," I assured her; "I am going to prove that I love you as truly as
if you were my own child."

When they were both present, I resolved that they should not suffer
a moment of needless suspense. Standing between them, I took Eunice's
hand, and laid my other hand on Philip's shoulder, and spoke out
plainly.

"I am here to make you both happy," I said. "I can remove the only
obstacle to your marriage, and I mean to do it. But I must insist on
one condition. Give me your promise, Philip, that you will ask for no
explanations, and that you will be satisfied with the one true statement
which is all that I can offer to you."

He gave me his promise, without an instant's hesitation.

"Philip grants what I ask," I said to Eunice. "Do you gra