Henry Carroll was a high-minded man; he felt that to love the daughter
while the father's views were unknown to him would be rank ingratitude;
and ingratitude towards so good a man, so kind a benefactor, was
repugnant to every principle of his nature. There was but one path open
to him. If he could not help loving her, he could strive to prevent the
loved one from squandering her affections where pain and sorrow might
ensue. They had often met; but he strove to believe, in his unwilling
zeal, that their intimacy had not yet resulted in an incurable passion.
She had as yet shown nothing that could not have resulted from simple
friendship. And yet she had,--the warm glow that adorned her cheek when
she received his flower, the expressive glance of her soft eye as he
assisted her to the carriage, the sweet smile with which she had always
greeted him,--ah, no, these were not friendship! I He could not believe
that his affection was unreturned; it was too precious to remain
unacknowledged. The will and the heart would not conform to each other.
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