* * * * *

"It is an odd thing in the history of the human heart, that the times
most sad to experience are often the most grateful to recall; and of all
the passages in our brief and checkered love, none have I clung to so
fondly or cherished so tenderly, as the remembrance of that desolate and
tearful hour. We walked slowly home, speaking very little, and lingering
on the way--and my arm was round her waist all the time. There was a
little stile at the entrance of the garden round Lucy's home, and
sheltered as it was by trees and bushes, it was there, whenever we met,
we took our last adieu--and there that evening we stopped, and lingered
over our parting words and our parting kiss--and at length, when I tore
myself away, I looked back and saw her in the sad and grey light of the
evening still there, still watching, still weeping! What, what hours of
anguish and gnawing of heart must one, who loved so kindly and so
entirely as she did, have afterwards endured.

"As I lay awake that night, a project, natural enough, darted across me.
I would seek Lucy's father, communicate our attachment, and sue for his
approbation. We might, indeed, be too young for marriage--but we could
wait, and love each other in the meanwhile. I lost no time in following
up this resolution. The next day, before noon, I was at the door of
Lucy's cottage--I was in the little chamber that faced the garden, alone
with her father.

"A boy forms strange notions of a man who is considered a scoundrel. I
was prepared to see one of fierce and sullen appearance, and to meet
with a rude and coarse reception. I found in Mr. D---- a person who
early accustomed--(for he was of high birth)--to polished society, still
preserved, in his manner and appearance, its best characteristics. His
voice was soft and bland; his face, though haggard and worn, retained
the traces of early beauty; and a courteous and attentive ease of
deportment had been probably improved by the habits of deceiving others,
rather than impaired. I told our story to this man, frankly and fully.
When I had done, he rose; he took me by the hand; he expressed some
regret, yet some satisfaction, at what he had heard. He was sensible how
much peculiar circumstances had obliged him to leave his daughter
unprotected; he was sensible, also, that from my birth and future
fortunes, my affection did honour to the object of my choice. Nothing
would have made him so happy, so prou