"Alas, sir, do not let me pain you; but that is not my hope. If, indeed,
it should prove that your son deceived you--that Sophy is no way related
to him--if she should be the child of peasants, but of honest peasants--
why, sir, that is my hope, my last hope--for then I would kneel once more
at your feet, and implore your permission to win her affection and ask
her hand."

"What! Mr. Darrell would consent to your union with the child of
peasants, and not with his own grandchild?"

"Sir, sir, you rack me to the heart; but if you knew all, you would not
wonder to hear me say, 'I dare not ask Mr. Darrell to bless my union with
the daughter of Jasper Losely.'"

Waife suppressed a groan, and began to pace the room with disordered
steps,

"But," resumed Lionel, "go to Fawley yourself. Seek Darrell; compare the
reasons for your belief with his for rejecting it. At this moment his
pride is more subdued than I have ever known it. He will go calmly into
the investigation of facts; the truth will become clear. Sir--dear, dear
sir--I am not without a hope."

"A hope that the child I have so cherished should be nothing in the world
to me!"

"--Nothing to you! Is memory such a shadow?--is affection such a
weathercock? Has the love between you and Sophy been only the instinct
of kindred blood? Has it not been hallowed by all that makes Age and
Childhood so pure a blessing to each other, rooted in trials borne