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These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's

house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went

into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible

trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my

father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable

parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my

mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical

subject, painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline

Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her

dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there

was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the

sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William;

and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus

engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to

welcome me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish

you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us

all joyous and delighted.