hen at
length the carriage arrived; and Mauleverer, for the second time that
evening playing the escort, conducted Lucy to the vehicle. Anxious to
learn if she had seen or been addressed by Clifford, the subtle earl,
as he led her to the gate, dwelt particularly on the intrusion of that
person, and by the trembling of the hand which rested on his arm, he
drew no delicious omen for his own hopes. "However," thought he, "the
man goes to-morrow, and then the field will be clear; the girl's a child
yet, and I forgive her folly." And with an air of chivalric veneration,
Mauleverer bowed the object of his pardon into her carriage.

As soon as Lucy felt herself alone with her father, the emotions so long
pent within her forced themselves into vent, is and leaning back against
the carriage, she wept, though in silence, tears, burning tears, of
sorrow, comfort, agitation, anxiety.

The good old squire was slow in perceiving his daughter's emotion; it
would have escaped him altogether, if, actuated by a kindly warming of
the heart towards her, originating in his new suspicion of her love for
Clifford, he had not put his arm round her neck; and this unexpected
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
re