Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the unsuspecting girl believed it to be.  She again threw her arms around him, and wept as if her very heart would break.

“This agitation, my darling,” he added, “is too much for us both.  My head is easily disturbed; but—­but—­send for Lucy,” he exclaimed, as if touched by a passing delirium, “send for my daughter.  I must have Lucy.  I have been harsh to her, and I cannot die without her forgiveness.”

“Here, papa—­dearest papa!  Recollect yourself; Lucy is with you; not to forgive you for anything, but to ask; to implore to be forgiven.”

“Ha!” he said, raising his head a little, and looking round like a man awakening from sleep.  “I fear I am beginning to wander.  Dear Lucy—­yes, it is you.  Oh, I recollect.  Withdraw, my darling; the sight of you—­the joy of your very appearance—­eh—­eh—­yes, let me see.  Oh, yes; withdraw, my darling; this interview has been too much for me—­I fear it has—­but rest and silence will restore me, I hope.  I hope so—­I hope so.”

Lucy, who feared that a continuance of this interview might very much aggravate his illness, immediately took her leave, and retired to her own room, whither she summoned Alley Mahon.  This blunt but faithful attendant felt no surprise in witnessing her grief; for indeed she had done little else than weep, ever since she heard of her father’s illness.

“Now don’t cry so much, miss,” she said; “didn’t I tell you that your grief will do neither you nor him any good?  Keep yourself cool and quiet, and spake to him like a raisonable crayture, what you are not, ever since you herd of his being sick.  It isn’t by shedding tears that you can expect to comfort him, as you intend to do, but by being calm, and considerate, and attentive to him, and not allowin’ him to see what you suffer.”

“That is very true, Alice, I admit,” replied Lucy; but when I consider that it was my undutiful flight from him that occasioned this attack, how can I free myself from blame?  My heart, Alice, is divided between a feeling of remorse for having deserted him without sufficient cause, and grief for his illness, and in that is involved the apprehension of his loss.  After all, Alice, you must admit that I have no friend in the world but my father.  How, then, can I think of losing him?”

“And even if God took him,” replied Alley, “which I hope after all isn’t so likely—­”

“What do you mean, girl?” asked Lucy, ignorant that Alley only used a form of speech peculiar to the people, “what language is this of my father?”

“Why, I hope it’s but the truth, miss,” replied the maid; “for if God was to call him to-morrow—­which may God forbid! you’d find friends that would take care of you and protect you.”