But she only repeated the words, “Oh, papa, have pity on me! have mercy on me, papa!  Save me from destruction—­from despair—­from madness!”

“You don’t answer me, child.  You have been dreaming, and are not properly awake.”

Still, however, the arms—­the beautiful arms—­clung around his neck; and still the mournful supplication was repeated.

“Oh, papa, have pity upon me!  Look at me!  Am I not your daughter?  Have mercy upon your daughter, papa!” And still she clung to him; and still those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly as before.  “Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa—­have pity upon your child!”

“What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl?  I am willing to do anything I can to promote your happiness.  What is it you want?”

“I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me.  Oh, relent! as you hope for heaven’s mercy, pity me.  I have, for your sake, undertaken too much.  I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself.  I will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will be gone.  You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake, papa.  Look upon me!  I am your only child—­your only child—­your last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one miserable—­miserable—­mad!  Only have compassion on me, and release me from this engagement.”

The baronet’s eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with hope.

“Oh, speak, papa,” she exclaimed, “speak.  I see, I feel that you are about to give me comfort—­to fill my heart with joy.”

“I am, indeed, Lucy.  Listen to me, and restrain yourself.  You are not my only child!”

“What!” she exclaimed.  “What do you mean, papa?  What is it?”

“Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout about what I am going to say.  Your brother is found—­my son Thomas is found—­and you will soon see him; he will be here presently.  Get rid of this foolish dream you’ve had, and prepare to receive him!”

“My brother!” she exclaimed, “my brother! and have I a brother?  Then God has not deserted me; I shall now have a friend.  My brother!—­my brother!  But is it possible, or am I dreaming still?  Oh, where is he, papa?  Bring me to him!—­is he in the house?  Or where is he?  Let the carriage be ordered, and we will both go to him.  Alas, what may not the poor boy have suffered!  What privations, what necessities, what distress and destitution may he not have suffered!  But that matters little; come to him.  In want, in rags, in misery, he is welcome—­yes, welcome; and, oh, how much more if he has suffered.”