They then separated, and Lucy, accompanied by Alley, proceeded to town at a pace as rapid as the animals that bore them could possibly accomplish.

On arriving in town, she was about rushing upstairs to throw herself in her father’s arms, when Gibson, who observed her, approached respectfully, and said: 

“This haste to see your father, Miss Gourlay, is very natural; but perhaps you will be good enough to wait a few moments, until he is prepared to receive you.  The doctor has left strict orders that he shall not see any person; but, above all things, without being announced.”

“But, Gibson—­first, how is he?  Is he very ill?”

Gibson assumed a melancholy and very solemn look, as he replied, “He is, indeed, ill, Miss Gourlay; but it would not become me to distress you—­especially as I hope your presence will comfort him; he is perpetually calling for you.”

“Go, Gibson, go,” she exclaimed, whilst tears, which she could not restrain, gushed to her eyes.  “Go, be quick; tell him I am here.”

“I will break it to him, madam, as gently as possible,” replied this sedate and oily gentleman; “for, if made acquainted with it too suddenly, the unexpected joy might injure him.”

“Do not injure him, then,” she exclaimed, earnestly; “oh, do not injure him—­but go; I leave it to your own discretion.”

Lucy immediately proceeded to her own room, and Gibson to the library, where he found the baronet in his nightcap and morning gown, reading a newspaper.

“I have the paragraph drawn up, Gibson,” said he, with a grim smile, “stating that I am dangerously ill; take and copy it, and see that it be inserted in to-morrow’s publication.”

“It will not be necessary, sir,” replied the footman; “Miss Gourlay is here, and impatient to see you.”

“Here!” exclaimed her father with a start; “you do not say she is in the house?”

“She has just arrived, sir, and is now in her own room.”

“Leave me, Gibson,” said the baronet, “and attend promptly when I ring;” and Gibson withdrew.  “Why,” thought he to himself, “why, do I feel as I do?  Glad that I have her once more in my power, and this is only natural; but why this kind of terror—­this awe of that extraordinary girl?  I dismissed that prying scoundrel of a footman, because I could not bear that he should observe and sneer at this hypocrisy, although I know he is aware of it.  What can this uncomfortable sensation which checks my joy at her return mean?  Is it that involuntary homage which they say vice is compelled to pay to purity, truth, and virtue?  I know not; but I feel disturbed, humbled with an impression like that of guilt—­an impression which makes me feel as if there actually were such a thing as conscience.  As my objects, however, are for the foolish girl’s advancement, I am determined to play the game out, and for that purpose, as I know now by experience that neither harshness nor violence will do, I shall have recourse to tenderness and affection.  I must touch her heart, excite her sympathy, and throw myself altogether upon her generosity.  Come then—­and now for the assumption of a new character.”