glow of her cheek was only surpassed by the flashing brilliancy of her
large, dark eyes, that seemed, in those glorious manifestations, to
kindle with inspiration. Her forehead was eminently intellectual, and
her general temperament--Celtic by the mother's side--was remarkable
for those fascinating transitions of spirit which passed over her
countenance like the gloom and sunshine of the early summer. Nothing
could be more delightful, nor, at the same time, more dangerous, than to
watch that countenance whilst moving under the influence of melancholy,
and to observe how quickly the depths of feeling, or the impulses of
tenderness, threw their delicious shadows into its expression--unless,
indeed, to watch the same face when lit up by humor, and animated into
radiance by mirth. Such is a faint outline of Lucy Gourlay, who, whether
in shadow or whether in light, was equally captivating and irresistible.

On entering the room, her father, incapable of appreciating even the
natural graced and beauty of her person, looked at her with a gaze of
sternness and inquiry for some moments, but seemed at a loss in what
terms to address her. She, however, spoke first, simply saying:

"Has anything discomposed you, papa?"

"I have been discomposed, Miss Gourlay"--for he seldom addressed her as
Lucy--"and I wish to have some serious conversation with you. Pray be
seated."

Lucy sat.

"I trust, Miss Gourlay," he proceeded, in a style partly interrogatory
and partly didactic--"I trust you are perfectly sensible that a child
like you owes full and unlimited obedience to her parents."