“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 proud, had I been older—­had I been my own master.  But I and he, alas! must be aware that my friends and guardians would never consent to my forming any engagement at so premature an age, and they and the world would impute the blame to him; for calumny (he added in a melancholy tone) had been busy with his name, and any story, however false or idle, would be believed of one who was out of the world’s affections.