caress so entirely unstrung her nerves that Lucy at once threw herself
upon her father's breast, and her weeping, hitherto so quiet, became
distinct and audible.

"Be comforted, my dear, dear child!" said the squire, almost affected to
tears himself; and his emotion, arousing him from his usual mental
confusion, rendered his words less involved and equivocal than they were
wont to be. "And now I do hope that you won't vex yourself; the young
man is indeed--and, I do assure you, I always thought so--a very charming
gentleman, there's no denying it. But what can we do? You see what they
all say of him, and it really was--we must allow that--very improper in
him to come without being asked. Moreover, my dearest child, it is very
wrong, very wrong indeed, to love any one, and not know who he is; and--
and--but don't cry, my dear love, don't cry so; all will be very well, I
am sure,--quite sure!"

As he said this, the kind old man drew his daughter nearer him, and
feeling his hand hurt by something she wore unseen which pressed against
it, he inquired, with some suspicion that the love might have proceeded
to love-gifts, what it was.

"It is my mother's picture," said Lucy, simply, and putting it aside.

The old squire had loved his wife tenderly; and when Lucy made this
reply, all the fond and warm recollections of his youth rushed upon him.
He thought, too, how earnestly on her death-bed that wife had recommended
to his vigilant care their only child now weeping on his bosom: he
remembered how, dwelling on that which to all women seems the grand epoch
of life, she had said, "Never let her affections be trifled with,--never
be persuaded by your ambitious brother to make her marry where she loves