breathed of elegance, ease, and that exquisite grace which marks every look, and word, and motion of the high-minded and accomplished lady.  Indeed, one would imagine that her appearance would have soothed and tranquillized the anger of any parent capable of feeling that glowing and prideful tenderness, with which such an exquisitely beautiful creature was calculated to fill a parent’s heart.  Lucy Gourlay was a dark beauty—­a brunette so richly tinted, that the glow of her cheek was only surpassed by the flashing brilliancy of her large, dark eyes, that seemed, in those glorious manifestations, to kindle with inspiration.  Her forehead was eminently intellectual, and her general temperament—­Celtic by the mother’s side—­was remarkable for those fascinating transitions of spirit which passed over her countenance like the gloom and sunshine of the early summer.  Nothing could be more delightful, nor, at the same time, more dangerous, than to watch that countenance whilst moving under the influence of melancholy, and to observe how quickly the depths of feeling, or the impulses of tenderness, threw their delicious shadows into its expression—­unless, indeed, to watch the same face when lit up by humor, and animated into radiance by mirth.  Such is a faint outline of Lucy Gourlay, who, whether in shadow or whether in light, was equally captivating and irresistible.

On entering the room, her father, incapable of appreciating even the natural graced and beauty of her person, looked at her with a gaze of sternness and inquiry for some moments, but seemed at a loss in what terms to address her.  She, however, spoke first, simply saying: 

“Has anything discomposed you, papa?”

“I have been discomposed, Miss Gourlay”—­for he seldom addressed her as Lucy—­“and I wish to have some serious conversation with you.  Pray be seated.”

Lucy sat.

“I trust, Miss Gourlay,” he proceeded, in a style partly interrogatory and partly didactic—­“I trust you are perfectly sensible that a child like you owes full and unlimited obedience to her parents.”

“So long, at least, sir, as her parents exact no duties from her that are either unreasonable or unjust, or calculated to destroy her own happiness.  With these limitations, I reply in the affirmative.”

“A girl like you, Miss Gourlay, has no right to make exceptions.  Your want of experience, which is only another name for your ignorance of life, renders you incompetent to form an estimate of what constitutes, or may constitute, your happiness.”

“Happiness!—­in what sense, sir?”

“In any sense, madam.”

“Madam!” she replied, with much feeling.  “Dear papa—­if you will allow me to call you so—­why address me in a tone of such coldness, if not of severity?  All I ask of you is, that, when you do honor me by an interview, you will remember that I am your daughter, and not speak to me as you would to an utter stranger.”