voice with which these last words were spoken, that Lucy, hurried off her
guard, and forgetting everything in wondering sympathy and compassion,
answered, extending her hand towards Clifford, who, still kneeling,
seized and covered it with kisses of fire,--

"Do not speak thus, Mr. Clifford; do not accuse yourself of what I am
sure, quite sure, you cannot deserve. Perhaps--forgive me--your birth,
your fortune, are beneath your merits, and you have penetrated into my
father's weakness on the former point; or perhaps you yourself have not
avoided all the errors into which men are hurried,--perhaps you have been
imprudent or thoughtless, perhaps you have (fashion is contagious) played
beyond your means or incurred debts: these are faults, it is true, and to
be regretted, yet surely not irreparable."

For that instant can it be wondered that all Clifford's resolution and
self-denial deserted him, and lifting his eyes, radiant with joy and
gratitude, to the face which bent in benevolent innocence towards him, he
exclaimed,--

"No, Miss Brandon!--no, Lucy!--dear, angel Lucy! my faults are less
venial than these, but perhaps they are no less the consequence of
circumstances and contagion; perhaps it may not be too late to repair
them. Would you--you indeed deign to be my guardian, I might not despair
of being saved!"

"If," said Lucy, blushing deeply and looking down, while she spoke quick
and eagerly, as if to avoid humbling him by her offer,--"if, Mr.
Clifford, the want of wealth has in any way occasioned you uneasiness or
--or error, do believe me--I mean _us_--so much your friends as not for
an instant to scruple in relieving us of some little portion of our last