“And now, Lucy,” he added, “I feel it necessary to claim a large portion of your approbation.”

She looked at him with a smile, but awaited his explanation.

“You will scarcely credit me when I assure you that I have had a clew to your place of residence, or concealment, or whatever it is to be termed, since the first morning of your arrival there, and yet I disturbed you not, either by letter or visit.  Thus you may perceive how sacred your lightest wish is to me.”

“And do you imagine that I am insensible to this delicate generosity?” she asked—­“oh, no; indeed, I fully appreciate it; but now, Charles, will you permit me to ask how, or when, or where you have been acquainted with my aunt Gourlay, for I was not aware that you had known each other?”

“This, my dear Lucy,” he replied, smiling, “you shall have cleared up along with all my other mysteries.  Like every riddle, although it may seem difficult now, it will be plain enough when told.”

“It matters not, dear Charles; I have every confidence in your truth and honor, and that is sufficient.”

He then informed her briefly, that he should be under the necessity of going to France for a short space, upon business of the deepest importance to himself.

“My stay, however,” he added, “will not be a very long one; and I trust, that after my return, I shall be in a position to speak out my love.  Indeed, I am anxious for this, dear Lucy, for I know how strong the love of truth and candor is in your great and generous heart.  And yet, for the sake of one good and amiable individual, or rather, I should say, of two, the object of my journey to France will not be accomplished without the deepest pain to myself.  It is, I may say here, to spare the feelings of the two individuals in question, that I have preserved the strict incognito which I thought necessary since my arrival in this country.”

“Farewell until then, my dear Charles; and in whatever object you may be engaged, let me beg that you will not inflict a wanton or unnecessary wound upon a good or amiable heart; but I know you will not—­it is not in your nature.”

“I trust not,” he added, as he took his leave.  “I cannot wait longer for lady Gourlay; but before I go, I will write a short note for her in the library, which will, for the present, answer the same purpose as seeing her.  Farewell, then, dearest and best of girls!—­farewell, and be as happy as you can; would that I could say, as I wish you, until we meet again.”

And thus they separated.

The scene that had just taken place rendered every effort at composure necessary on the part of Lucy, before the return of Lady Gourlay.  This lady, strange as it may seem, she had yet never seen or met, and she now began to reflect upon the nature of the visit she had made her, as well as of the reception she might get.  If it were possible that her father had made away with her child on the one hand, could