“But, my dear Lucy,” replied the stranger, “that risk may easily be avoided.  This meeting seems providential—­I entreat you, let us accept it as such and avail ourselves of it.”

“That is,” she replied, whilst her glorious dark eye kindled, and her snowy temples got red as fire, “that is, that I should elope with you, I presume?  Sir,” she added, “you are the last man from whom I should have expected an insult.  You forget yourself, and you forget me.”

The high sense of honor that flashed from that glorious eye, and which made itself felt through the indignant tones of her voice, rebuked him at once.

“I have erred,” said he, “but I have erred from an excess of affection—­will you not pardon me?”

She felt the difficulty and singular distress of her position, and in spite of her firmness and the unnatural harshness of her father, she almost regretted the step she had taken.  As it was, she made no reply to the stranger, but seemed absorbed in thoughts of bitterness and affliction.

“Let me press you,” said the stranger, “to come into the hotel; you require both rest and refreshment—­and I entreat and implore you, for the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an hour’s conversation.”

“I have reconsidered our position,” she replied.  “Alley will fetch in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and driver—­she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future embarrassment and misunderstanding—­Alley, however, must accompany us, and be present in the room.  But then,” she added, starting, “is it proper?—­is it delicate?—­no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might compromise me with the world.  Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command you.  I ask it as a proof of your love.  We will, I trust, have other opportunities.  Let us trust, too, to time—­let us trust to God—­but I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my mother’s daughter.”

“Well,” replied the stranger, “I shall obey you as a proof of my love for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?—­will you not give me your address?”

“No,” she returned; “and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever be happy, not to attempt to trace me.  I ask this from you as a man of honor.  Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we travelled in the same coach.  The accident may be misinterpreted.  My father may seek an explanation from you—­he may ask if you know where I am.  Should I have placed the knowledge of my retreat in your possession, you know that, as a man of honor, you could not tell him a falsehood.  Goodby,” she added, “we may meet in better times, but I much fear that our destinies will be separated forever—­Come, Alley.”

Her voice softened as she uttered the last words, and the stranger felt the influence of her ascendency over him too strongly to hesitate in manifesting this proof of his obedience to her wishes.