Lucy’s eyes were already filled with tears at the ungenerous and unfeeling insinuation of her father.

“You shall not, indeed, Thomas,” she replied; “and you, papa, are scarcely just to me in saying so.  I judge no person by their external appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be prejudiced by looks, although I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to the character.  I judge my friends by my experience of their conduct—­by their heart—­their principles—­their honor.  Good-by, now, my dear brother; I am quite impatient to hear your history, and I am sure you will gratify me as soon as you can.”

She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, observed under every nail a semicircular line of black drift that jarred very painfully on her feelings.  Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and she withdrew.

When she had gone out, the baronet bent his eyes upon her brother with a look that seemed to enter into his very soul—­a look which his son, from his frequent teachings, very well understood.

“Now, Tom,” said he, “that you have seen your sister, what do you think of her?  Is it not a pity that she should ever move under the rank of a countess?”

“Under the rank of a queen, sir.  She would grace the throne of an empress.”

“And yet she has all the simplicity of a child; but I can’t get her to feel ambition.  Now, mark me, Tom; I have seen enough in this short interview to convince me that if you are not as firm as a rock, she will gain you over.”

“Impossible, sir; I love her too well to lend myself to her prejudices against her interests.  Her objections to this marriage must proceed solely from inexperience.  It is true, Lord Dunroe bears a very indifferent character, and if you could get any other nobleman with a better one as a husband for her, it would certainly be more agreeable.”

“It might, Tom; but I cannot.  The truth is, I am an unpopular man among even the fashionable circles, and the consequence is, that I do not mingle much with them.  The disappearance of my brother’s heir has attached suspicions to me which your discovery will not tend to remove.  Then there is Lucy’s approaching marriage, which your turning up at this particular juncture may upset.  Dunroe, I am aware, is incapable of appreciating such a girl as Lucy.”

“Then why, sir, does he marry her?”

“In consequence of her property.  You perceive, then, that unless you lie by until after this marriage, my whole schemes for this girl may be destroyed.”

“But how, sir, could my appearance or reappearance effect such a catastrophe?”

“Simply because you come at the most unlucky moment.”

“Unlucky, sir!” exclaimed the youth, with much affected astonishment, for he had now relapsed into his original character, and felt himself completely in his element.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” said his father; “I will explain myself.  Had you never appeared, Lucy would have inherited the family estates, which, in right of his wife, would have passed into the possession of Dunroe.  Your appearance, however, if made known, will prevent that, and probably cause Dunroe to get out of it; and it is for this reason that I wish to keep your very existence a secret until the marriage is over.”