“No.  I trust in thee as a parent in his child.  Thou art as incapable of deception as the heavens of a stain.  I have known thee, Faith, since thou wast a child, and thou hast always had an influence over me.  As the notes of the youthful harper of Israel scared away the demons from the bosom of Saul, so do the tones of thy voice thrill me like a melody from the past.  So tell me of thyself and of all that concerns thee, so far, at least, as thou canst impart thy thoughts and feelings to one like me.”

“The subjects that engage the attention of a young woman can have little interest for you, father.”

“Believe it not.  Though my heart be sore, it has not lost all its earlier feelings.”

“I cannot speak of myself,” said Faith.  “My life has been too destitute of incident to deserve mention, and it is already known to you.”

“What callest thou life?  Is it,” he continued, fixing his eyes on the carpet, and speaking in a low tone, “the few gasps that agitate the bosom here?  If that were all, it were of but little more consequence than any other sigh.  But this is only the beginning.  It is the lighting of the spark that shall blaze a glorious star, or burn a lurid conflagration for ever.”  He stopped; he raised his eyes to the face of Faith, whose own were fastened on him, and gazed fondly on her; his features assumed a softened expression; and, as if a new train of thought had driven out the old, he added, “blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Apparently, these exclamations affected Faith with no surprise.  She had probably listened to similar conversations, and simply replied: 

“Who shall say his heart is pure?”

“If not thou, then none.  Sad thought, that the poisoned tongue of the snake in Eden, should taint even a being so fair as thou.”

“Father,” said Faith, who was desirous of changing a conversation which began to be embarrassing, for to such ejaculations it was impossible to return reasonable answers, “do you love the loneliness, of your island as much as ever?  Would it not be more prudent to pass the winter months in the village?”

“Thou art not the only one whose kindness hath asked the question.  But, in my youth I learned to love solitude, though it was forced on me in the beginning.  The dungeon and the chain introduced me to its acquaintance; yet, such is the kindness of Providence, that, what at first I hated, I afterwards learned to love.  Know, too, that I have lived in the boundless forest, until an inhabited street cramps my breast and stifles my breath; nor am I ever less alone than when alone with God.  Ask me not, then, though thy intentions be kind, to renounce a mode of life which habit hath made a second nature.”

“Tell me of your adventures.”

“Hold!  Wouldst thou hear of a youth blasted by unkindness; of prostrate hopes, and scenes of revenge and horror?  Nay, thou knowest not what thou askest.”