"My father!" said Isabella, with a sort of start, which expressed at
least as much fear, as joy or affection.
"Yes, Isabella," said Vere, "your unhappy father, who comes now as a
penitent to crave forgiveness of his daughter for an injury done to her
in the excess of his affection, and then to take leave of her for ever."
"Sir? Offence to me take leave for ever? What does all this mean?" said
Miss Vere.
"Yes, Isabella, I am serious. But first let me ask you, have you no
suspicion that I may have been privy to the strange chance which befell
you yesterday morning?"
"You, sir?" answered Isabella, stammering between a consciousness that
he had guessed her thoughts justly, and the shame as well as fear which
forbade her to acknowledge a suspicion so degrading and so unnatural.
"Yes!" he continued, "your hesitation confesses that you entertained
such an opinion, and I have now the painful task of acknowledging that
your suspicions have done me no injustice. But listen to my motives.
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