n one
demand that from a father?

WAITWELL.

I do not know, Miss, whether I understand this quite right. But it
seems to me, you mean to say that he would have to forgive you too
much, and as this could not but be very difficult to him, you make a
scruple of accepting his forgiveness. If you mean that, tell me, pray,
is not forgiving a great happiness to a kind heart? I have not been so
fortunate in my life as to have felt this happiness often. But I still
remember with pleasure the few instances when I have felt it. I felt
something so sweet, something so tranquillising, something so divine,
that I could not help thinking of the great insurpassable blessedness
of God, whose preservation of miserable mankind is a perpetual
forgiveness. I wished that I could be forgiving continually, and was
ashamed that I had only such trifles to pardon. To forgive real painful
insults, deadly offences, I said to myself, must be a bliss in which
the whole soul melts. And now, Miss, will you grudge your father such
bliss?

SARA.

Ah! Go on, Waitwell, go on!

WAITWELL.

I know well there are people who accept nothing less willingly than
forgiveness, and that because they have never learned to grant it. They
are proud, unbending people, who will on no account confess that they
have done wrong. But you do not belong to this kind, Miss! You have the
most loving and tender of hearts that the best of your sex can have.
You confess your fault too. Where then is the difficulty? But pardon
me, Miss! I am an old chatterer, and ought to have seen at once that
your refusal is only a praiseworthy solicitude, only a virtuous
timidity. People who can accept a great benefit immediately without any
hesitation are seldom worthy of it. Those who deserve it most have
always the greatest mistrust of themselves. Yet mistrust must not be
pushed beyond limits!

SARA.

Dear old father! I believe you have persuaded me.

WAITWELL.

If I have been so fortunate as that it must have been a good spirit
that has helped me to plead. But no, Miss, my words have done no more
than given you time to reflect and to recover from the bewilderment of
joy. You will read the letter now, will you not? Oh, read it at once!

SARA.

I will do so, Waitwell! What regrets, what pain