In this manner would he attempt to reason himself out of these dreadful visitations, by the shallow sophistry of the sceptic and infidel.

The time, however, he thought, was now approaching when it was necessary that something should be done with respect to Lucy’s approaching marriage.  He accordingly sent for her, and having made very affectionate inquiries after her health, for he had not for a moment changed the affected tenderness of his manner, he asked if she believed herself capable of granting an interview to Lord Dunroe.  Lucy, now that escape from the frightful penalty of her obedience was impossible, deemed it, after much painful reflection, better to submit with as little apparent reluctance as possible.

“I fear, papa,” she said, in tones that would have touched and softened any heart but that to which she addressed herself, “I fear that it is useless to wait until I am better.  I feel my strength declining every day, without any hope of improvement.  I may therefore as well see him now as at a future time.”

“My dear Lucy, I know that you enter into this engagement with reluctance.  I know that you do it for my sake; and you may rest assured that your filial piety and obedience will be attended with a blessing.  After marriage you will find that change of scene, Dunroe’s tenderness, and the influence of enlivening society, will completely restore your health and spirits.  Dunroe’s a rattling, pleasant fellow; and notwithstanding his escapades, has an excellent heart.  Tut, my dear child, after a few months you will yourself smile at these girlish scruples, and thank papa for forcing you into happiness.”

Lucy’s large eyes had been fixed upon him while he spoke, and as he concluded, two big tears, the first she had shed for weeks, stood within their lids.  They seemed, however, but visionary; for although they did fall they soon disappeared, having been absorbed, as it were, into the source from which they came, by the feverish heat of her brain.

“It is enough, papa,” she said; “I am willing to see him—­willing to see him whenever you wish.  I am in your hands, and neither you nor he need apprehend any further opposition from me.”

“You are a good girl, Lucy; and you may believe me again that this admirable conduct of yours will have its reward in a long life of future happiness.”

“Future happiness, papa,” she replied, with a peculiar emphasis on the word; “I hope so.  May I withdraw, sir?”

“You may, my dear child.  God bless and reward you, Lucy.  It is to your duty I owe it that I am a living man—­that you have a father.”

When she had gone, he sat down to his desk, and without losing a moment sent a note to Dunroe, of which the following is a copy: 

“My dear Lord Dunroe,—­I am happy to tell you that Lucy is getting on famously.