I would not let him go; but, taking him with me into the library, I shut the door, and, kneeling on the floor beside him, I embraced him, kissed him, wept over with him with passionate fondness.

Rather frightened than consoled by this, he turned struggling from me, and cried out aloud for his papa.

I released him from my arms, and never were more bitter tears than those that now concealed him from my blinded, burning eyes.

Hearing his cries, the father came to the room.

I instantly turned away, lest he should see and misconstrue my emotion.