pproached his daughter with a smile that seemed rather unnaturally to
play over his grave and almost melancholy countenance, and it was with a
forced attempt at pleasantry he said, as he took her hand:--

"Now, I dare say, you think you have done something very wrong, and that
I have brought you here to give you a lecture."

"I hope, father, I have done nothing wrong," was Mildred's grave and
almost tremulous reply.

"Thou art a good child, Mildred," said Lindsay, drawing a chair close
beside hers, and then, in a more serious tone, he continued, "you are
entirely sure, my daughter, that I love you, and devoutly seek your
happiness?"

"Dear father, you frighten me by this solemn air. Why ask me such a
question?"

"Pardon me, my girl, but my feelings are full with subjects of serious
import, and I would have you believe that what I have now to say springs
from an earnest solicitude for your welfare."

"You have always shown it, father."

"I come to speak to you, without reserve, of Tyrrel," resumed Lindsay;
"and you will not respond to my confidence, unless you answer me in the
very truth of your heart. This gentleman, Mr. Tyrrel, has twice avowed
to me of late an earnest attachment to you, and has sought my leave to
prosecute his suit. Such things are not apt to escape a woman's notice,
and you have doubtless had some hint of his predilection before he
disclosed it to me."

All the woman's bashfulness disappeared with this announcement. Mildred
grew erect in her seat, and as the native pride of her character beamed
forth from every feature of her face, she replied--

"He has never, father, vouchsafed to give me such a proof of his good
opinion. Mr. Tyrrel is content to make his bargain with you: he is well
aware that whatever hope he may be idle enough to cherish, must depend
more on your command than on my regard."

"He has never spoken to you, Mildred?" asked Lindsay, without making any
comment on the indignant reception his daughter had given to his
disclosure. "Never a word? Bethink you, my daughter, of all that has
lately passed between you. A maiden is apt to misconstrue attentions.
Can you remember nothing beyond the mere civilities of custom?"

"I can think of nothing in the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel but his devotion to
the purpose of embroiling my dear father in his miserable politics. I
can remember nothing of him but his low voice and noiseless step, his
mysterious insinuations, his midnight sittings,