action all the higher qualities of our being, and enlarges all our capacities for happiness.  God and nature, so to speak, had gifted her mind with extraordinary feeling and intellect, and her person with unusual grace and beauty; yet, here, by this act of self-devotion to her father, she renounced all that the human heart with such strong claims upon the legitimate enjoyments of life could expect, and voluntarily entered into a destiny of suffering and misery.  She reflected upon and felt the bitterness of all this; but, on the other hand, the contemplation of a father dying in consequence of her disobedience—­dying, too, probably in an unprepared state—­whose heart was now full of love and tenderness for her; who, in fact, was in grief and sorrow in consequence of what he had caused her to suffer.  We say she contemplated all this, and her great heart felt that this was the moment of mercy.

“It is resolved!” she exclaimed; “I will disturb him for a little.  There is no time now for meanly wrestling it out, for ungenerous hesitation and delay.  Suspense may kill him; and whilst I deliberate, he may be lost.  Father, I come, Never again shall you reproach me with disobedience.  Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I should become the victim of an error which originates in affection for myself?  I yield at last, as is my duty; now your situation makes it so; and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace between us.  Farewell, now, to love—­to love legitimate, pure, and holy!—­farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of life which follow it—­farewell to peace of! heart—­to the wife’s pride of eye, to the husband’s tender glance—­farewell—­farewell to everything in this wretched life but the hopes of heaven!  I come, my father—­I come.  But I had forgotten,” she said, “I must not see him without permission, nor unannounced, as Gibson said.  Stay, I shall ring for Gibson.”

“Gibson,” said she, when he had made his appearance, “try if your master could see me for a moment; say I request it particularly, and that I shall scarcely disturb him.  Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill indeed—­and even then do so.”

Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feeling that it might be dangerous to agitate her father by the exhibition of emotion, endeavored to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson’s return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic.  In fact, the greatness—­the heroic spirit—­of the coming sacrifice emanated like a beautiful but solemn light from her countenance, and on being desired to go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and composure.

On entering, she found her father much in the same position:  his head, as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy brows.

“You wished to see me, my dear Lucy.  Have you any favor to ask, my child?  If so, ask whilst I have recollection and consciousness to grant it.  I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy.  I was wrong ever to struggle with you.  It was too much for me, for I am now the victim; but even that is well, for I am glad it is not you.”