“It would indeed be unfortunate,” replied the stranger, “that two individuals so nearly connected by family, and what is more, the possession of similar virtues, should not be known to each other.”

This compliment brought a deeper tinge of color to Lucy’s cheek, who simply replied, “I have often wished most sincerely for the pleasure—­the honor, I should say—­of her acquaintance; but unfortunately the ill-feeling that has subsisted between the families, or rather between a portion of them, has hitherto prevented it.  If I were now under my father’s roof a visit here were out of the question; but you know, Charles, I cannot, and I ought not, to inherit his resentments.”

“True, my dear Lucy, and I am glad to see you here for many, many reasons.  No, your father’s resentments would perish for want of nurture in a heart like yours.  But, Lucy, there is a subject in which I trust we both feel a dearer and a deeper interest than that of family feud.  I am aware of this hateful union which your father wishes to bring about between you and this Lord Dunroe.  I have been long aware of it, as you know; but need I say that I place every reliance, all honorable confidence, in your truth and attachment?”

He had approached, and gently taking her hand in his as he spoke, he uttered these words in a tone so full at once of tenderness and that sympathy to which he knew her sufferings on this point had entitled her, that Lucy was considerably affected, although she restrained her emotions as well as she could.

“If it were not so,” she replied, in a voice whose melody was made more touchingly beautiful by the slight tremor which she endeavored to repress, “if it were not so, Charles, I would not now be a fugitive. from my father’s roof.”

The stranger’s eye sparkled with the rapturous enthusiasm of love, as the gentle girl, all blushes, gave expression to an assurance so gratifying, so delicious to his heart.

“Dearest Lucy,” said he, “I fear I am unworthy of you.  Oh, could you but know how those words of yours have made my heart tremble with an excess of transport which language fails to express, you would also know that the affection with which I love you is as tender, as pure, as unselfish, as ever warmed the heart of man.  And yet, as I said, I fear it is unworthy of you.  I know your father’s character, his determination, the fierce force of his will, and the energy with which he pursues every object on which he sets his heart or ambition.  I say I know all this, and I sometimes fear the consequences.  What can the will of only one pure, gentle, and delicate heart avail against the united powers of ambition, authority, persuasion, force, determination, perhaps violence?  What, I repeat, can a gentle heart like yours ultimately avail against such a host of difficulties?  And it is for this reason that I say I am unworthy of you, for I fear—­and you know that perfect love casteth out all fear.”