ess me, whoever
thou art, whether a messenger from the Highest in my father's form or
my father himself!

SIR WILLIAM.

God bless thee, my daughter! Keep quiet (_she tries again to throw
herself at his feet_). Another time, when you have regained your
strength, I shall not be displeased to see you clasp my faltering
knees.

SARA.

Now, my father, or never! Soon I shall be no more! I shall be only too
happy if I still have a few moments to reveal my heart to you. But not
moments--whole days--another life, would be necessary to tell all that
a guilty, chastened and repentant daughter can say to an injured but
generous and loving father. My offence, and your forgiveness----

SIR WILLIAM.

Do not reproach yourself for your weakness, nor give me credit for that
which is only my duty. When you remind me of my pardon, you remind me
also of my hesitation in granting it. Why did I not forgive you at
once? Why did I reduce you to the necessity of flying from me. And this
very day, when I had already forgiven you, what was it that forced me
to wait first for an answer from you? I could already have enjoyed a
whole day with you if I had hastened at once to your arms. Some latent
spleen must still have lain in the innermost recesses of my
disappointed heart, that I wished first to be assured of the
continuance of your love before I gave you mine again. Ought a father
to act so selfishly? Ought we only to love those who love us? Chide me,
dearest Sara! Chide me! I thought more of my own joy in you than of you
yourself. And if I were now to lose this joy? But who, then, says that
I must lose it? You will live; you will still live long. Banish all
these black thoughts! Mellefont magnifies the danger. He put the whole
house in an uproar, and hurried away himself to fetch the doctors, whom
he probably will not find in this miserable place. I saw his passionate
anxiety, his hopeless sorrow, without being seen by him. Now I know
that he loves you sincerely; now I do not grudge him you any longer. I
will wait here for him and lay your hand in his. What I would otherwise
have done only by compulsion, I now do willingly, since I see how dear
you are to him. Is it true that it was Marwood herself who caused you
this terror? I could understand this much from your Betty's
lamentations, but nothing more. But why do I inquire into the causes of
you