“I speak but for your happiness, Lilla;” his voice was somewhat softened.  “You cannot be happy now with one so harsh, irritable, cruel as, I know, I am too often.”

“And would you compare the occasional irritation proceeding from the failing health of a beloved father, with the fierce passion and constant impatience of a husband, with whom I could not have one idea in common, whom I could neither love nor reverence, to whom even my duty would be wretchedness? oh, my father, can you compare the two?  Think of Mrs. Greville:  Philip Clapperton ever reminds me of Mr. Greville, of what at least he must have been in his youth, and would you sentence me to all the misery that has been poor Mrs. Greville’s lot and her children’s likewise?”

“You do not know enough of Clapperton to judge him thus harshly, Lilla; I know him better, and I cannot see the faults against which you are so inveterate.  Your sister chose a husband for herself, and how has she fared? is she happy?”

“Annie cannot be happy, father, even if her husband were of a very different character.  She disobeyed; a parent’s blessing hallowed not her nuptials, and strange indeed would it be were her lot otherwise; but though I cannot love the husband of your choice, you may trust me, father, without your consent and blessing, I will never marry.”

“Do not say you cannot love Philip Clapperton, Lilla; when once his wife, you could not fail to do so.  I would see you united to one who loves you, my child, ere your affections are bestowed on another, who may be less willing to return them.”

Grahame spoke in a tone of such unwonted softness, that the tears now rolled unchecked down Lilla’s cheeks.  Her ingenuous nature could not be restrained; she felt as if, were she still silent, she would be deceiving him, and hiding her face in her hand, she almost inaudibly said—­

“For that, then, it is too late, father; I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, because—­because I love another.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Grahame, starting, then laying his trembling hand on Lilla’s head, he continued, struggling with strong emotion, “this, then, is the cause of your determined refusal.  Poor child, poor child, what misery have you formed for yourself!”

“And wherefore misery, my father?” replied Lilla, raising her head somewhat proudly, and speaking as firmly as her tears would permit.  “Your child would not have loved had she not deemed her affections sought, ay, and valued too.  Think not I would degrade myself by giving my heart to any one who deemed me or my father beneath his notice.  If ever eye or act can speak, I do not love in vain.”

“And would you believe in trifles such as these?” asked her father, sorrowfully.  “Alas! poor child, words are often false, still less can you rely on the language of the eye.  Has anything like an understanding taken place between you?”

“Alas! my father, no; and yet—­and yet—­oh, I know he loves me.”