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54 The man to whoe breat I held my word—[trembling].

Was Baron Wildenhaim—the owner of this etate—my father!

My father!

Good heaven, how he looks! I am afraid he’s mad. Here! Francis, Francis.

My father! Eternal judge! thou do’t not lumber! The man, againt whom I drew my word this day was my father! One moment longer, and provoked, I might have been the murderer of my father! my hair tands on end! my eyes are clouded! I cannot ee any thing before me. [Sinks down on a chair]. If Providence had ordained that I hould give the fatal blow, who, would have been mot in fault?—I dare not pronounce——after a paue] That benevolent young female who left me jut now, is, then, my iter and I uppoe that fop, who accompanied my father——

Welcome, Sir! By your dres you are of the church, and conequently a meenger of comfort. You are mot welcome, Sir.

I wih to bring comfort and avoid upbraidings; for your own concience will reproach you more than the voice of a preacher. From the enibility of your countenance, together with a language, and addres uperior to the vulgar, it pears,