“Gratifying it unquestionably is, Lucy.  He is well educated; and will soon be fit to take his proper position in society.”

“Soon!  I trust immediately, papa; I hope you will not allow him to remain a moment longer in obscurity; compensate him at least for his sufferings.  But, my dear Thomas,” she proceeded, turning to him, “let me ask, do you remember mamma?  If she were now here, how her affectionate heart would rejoice!  Do you remember her my dear Thomas?”

“Not distinctly,” he replied; “something of a pale, handsome woman comes occasionally like a dream of my childhood to my imagination—­a graceful woman, with auburn hair, and a melancholy look, I think.”

“You—­do,” replied Lucy, as her eyes sparkled, “you do remember her; that is exactly a sketch of her—­gentle, benignant, and affectionate, with a fixed sorrow mingled with resignation in her face.  Yes, you remember her!”

“Now, Lucy,” said her father, who never could bear any particular allusion to his wife; “now that you have seen your brother, I think you may withdraw, at least for the present.  He and I have matters of importance to talk of; and you know you will have enough of him again—­plenty of time to hear his past history, which, by the way, I am as anxious to hear as you are.  You may now withdraw, my love.”

“Oh, not so soon, father, if you please,” said Thomas; “allow us a little more time together.”

“Well, then, a few minutes only, for I myself must take an airing in the carriage, and I must also call upon old Cullamore.”

“Papa,” said Lucy, “I am about to disclose a little secret to you which I hesitated to do before, but this certainly is a proper occasion for doing it; the secret I speak of will disclose itself.  Here is where it lay both day and night since mamma’s death,” she added, putting her hand upon her heart; “it is a miniature portrait of her which I myself got done.”

She immediately drew it up by a black silk ribbon, and after contemplating it with tears, she placed it in the hands of her brother.

This act of Lucy’s placed him in a position of great pain and embarrassment.  His pretended recollection of Lady Gourlay was, as the reader already guesses, nothing more than the description of her which he had received from Corbet, that he might be able to play his part with an appearance of more natural effect.  With the baronet, the task of deception was by no means difficult; but with Lucy, the case was altogether one of a different complexion.  His father’s principles, as expounded by his illegitimate son’s worthy uncle, were not only almost familiar to him, but also in complete accordance with his own.  With him, therefore, the deception consisted in little else than keeping his own secret, and satisfying his father that their moral views of life were the same.  He was not prepared, however, for the effect which Lucy’s noble qualities produced upon him so soon.  To him who had never