"I have nothing to forgive, Mr. St. John," said Lucretia, with a softened
manner. "Pardon me rather that my infirmities do not allow me to rise to
receive you. This seat,--here,--next to me. You have a strong likeness
to your father."

Percival received this last remark as a compliment, and bowed. Then, as
he lifted his ingenuous brow, he took for the first time a steady view of
his new-found relation. The peculiarities of Lucretia's countenance in
youth had naturally deepened with middle age. The contour, always too
sharp and pronounced, was now strong and bony as a man's; the line
between the eyebrows was hollowed into a furrow. The eye retained its
old uneasy, sinister, sidelong glance, or at rare moments (as when
Percival entered), its searching penetration and assured command; but the
eyelids themselves, red and injected, as with grief or vigil, gave
something haggard and wild, whether to glance or gaze. Despite the
paralysis of the frame, the face, though pale and thin, showed no bodily
decay. A vigour surpassing the strength of woman might still be seen in
the play of the bold muscles, the firmness of the contracted lips. What
physicians call "vitality," and trace at once (if experienced) on the
physiognomy as the prognostic of long life, undulated restlessly in every
aspect of the face, every movement of those thin, nervous hands, which,
contrasting the rest of that motionless form, never seemed to be at rest.
The teeth were still white and regular, as in youth; and when they shone
out in speaking, gave a strange, unnatural freshness to a face otherwise
so worn.

As Percival gazed, and, while gazing, saw those wandering eyes bent down,
and yet felt they watched him, a thrill almost of fear shot through his
heart. Nevertheless, so much more impressionable was he to charitable