“Know me aright, Charles.  I have been severely tried.  Many a girl, I am sorry to say, would forget Dunroe’s profligacy in his rank.  Many a girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet; for ambition—­the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all kinds of ambition—­that of rank, title, the right of precedence—­is unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as such it is felt.  Be it so, Charles; let me remain unfashionable and vulgar.  Perish the title if not accompanied by worth; fling the gaudy coronet aside if it covers not the brow of probity and honor.  Retain those, dear Charles—­retain worth, probity, and honor—­and you retain a heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and true dignity.”

The stranger gave her a long gaze of admiration, and exclaimed, deeply affected,

“Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world.  Your spirit is too pure, too noble for common life.  Like some priceless gem, it sparkles with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of mankind to appreciate.”

“No such thing, Charles:  you quite overrate me; but God forbid that the possession of virtue and good dispositions should ever become a disqualification for this world.  It is not so; but even if it were, provided I shine in the estimation of my own little world, by which I mean the affection of him to whom I shall unite my fate, then I am satisfied:  his love and his approbation shall constitute my coronet and my honor.”

The stranger was absolutely lost in admiration and love, for he felt that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an eloquence and an energy to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresistible.

“My dear life,” said he, “the music of your words, clothing, as it does, the divine principles they utter, must surely resemble the melody of heaven’s own voices.  For my part, I feel relaxed in such a delicious rapture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before—­entranced, as it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness.  But, dearest Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father?  Have you heard from him?  Have you written to him?  Is he aware of your present residence?”

“No,” she replied; “he is not aware of my present residence, but I have written to him.  I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and to diminish his anxiety as far as in me lay.  Heaven knows,” she added, bursting into tears, “that this unnatural estrangement between father and daughter is most distressing.  I am anxious to be with papa, to render him, in every sense, all the duties of a child, provided only he will not persist in building up the superstructure of rank upon my own unhappiness.  Have you seen him?” she inquired, drying her eyes, a task in which she was tenderly assisted by the stranger.

“I saw him,” he replied, “for a short time;” but the terms in which he explained the nature of the interview between himself and the baronet were not such as could afford her a distinct impression of all that took place, simply because he wished to spare her the infliction of unnecessary pain.