Then the stout admiral mingled his tears with hers, and began to
realize what deep waters of affliction his girl was wading in.
Yet he saw no way out but firmness. He wrote to Sir Charles to say that
his daughter was too ill to write; but that no explanation was
possible, and no interview could be allowed.
Sir Charles, who, after writing, had conceived the most sanguine hopes,
was now as wretched as Bella. Only, now that he was refused a hearing,
he had wounded pride to support him a little under wounded love.
Admiral Bruce, fearing for his daughter's health, and even for her
life--she pined so visibly--now ordered her to divide her day into
several occupations, and exact divisions of time--an hour for this, an
hour for that; an hour by the clock--and here he showed practical
wisdom. Try it, ye that are very unhappy, and tell me the result.
As a part of this excellent system, she had to walk round the square
from eleven to twelve A. M., but never alone; he was not going to have
Sir Charles surprising her into an interview. He always went with her,
and, as he was too stiff to walk briskly, he sat down, and she had to
walk in sight. He took a stout stick with him--for Sir Charles. But Sir
Charles was proud, and stayed at home with his deep wound.
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