ad to me
than you. Never dreamed I then that a creature so fair would be other
than a child to my grave and matured existence. Then, if I glanced
towards your future, I felt no pang to picture you grown to
womanhood--another's bride. My hearth had for years been widowed, I had
no thought of second nuptials. My son would live to enjoy my wealth, and
realise my cherished dreams--my son was snatched from me! Who alone
had the power to comfort?--who alone had the courage to steal into the
darkened room where I sate mourning? sure that in her voice there would
be consolation, and the sight of her sympathising tears would chide
away the bitterness of mine?--who but the Caroline of old! Ah, you are
weeping now. But Lady Montfort's tears have no talisman to me! You were
then still a child--as a child, my soothing angel. A year or so more my
daughter, to whom all my pride of House--all my hope of race, had been
consigned--she whose happiness I valued so much more than my ambition,
that I had refused her hand to your young Lord of Montfort--puppet
that, stripped of the millinery of titles, was not worthy to replace a
doll!--my daughter, I folded her one night in my arms,--I implored her
to confide in me if ever she nursed a hope that I could further--knew a
grief that I could banish; and she promised--and she bent her forehead
to my blessing--and before daybreak she had fled with a man whose very
touch was dishonour and pollution, and was lost to me for ever.... Then,
when I came hither to vent at my father's grave the indignant grief I
suffered not the world to see, you and your mother (she who professed
for me such loyal friendship, such ineffaceable gratitude), you two
came kindly to share my solitude--and then, then you were a child no
more!--and a sun that had never gilt my life brightened out of the face
of the Caroline of old!" He paused a moment, heeding not her bitter
weeping; he was rapt from the present hour itself by the excess of that
anguish which is to woe what ecstasy is to joy--swept along by the flood
of thoughts that had been pent within his breast through the solitary
days and haunted nights, which had made the long transition state from
his manhood's noon to its gathering eve. And in that pause there came
from afar off a melodious, melancholy strain--softly, softly borne
over the cold blue waters--softly, softly through the sere autumnal
leaves--the music of the magic flute!

"Hark!" he said, "do you not reme