“It is a dreadful analogy, my dear Lucy; but you must take comfort.  Who knows what a day may bring forth?  You are not yet hanging upon the precipice of life.”

“I feel that I am,—­Charles; and what is more, I see the depth to which I must be precipitated; but, alas, I possess none of that fearful courage that is said to reconcile one to the fall.”

“Lucy,” he replied, “into this gulf of destruction you shall never fall.  Believe me, there is an invisible hand that will support you when you least expect it; a power that shapes our purposes, roughhew them as we will.  I came to request an interview with your father upon this very subject.  Have courage, dearest girl; friends are at work who I trust will ere long be enabled to place documents in his hands that will soon change his purposes.  I grant that it is possible these documents may fail, or may not be procured; and in that case I know not how we are to act.  I mention the probability of failure lest a future disappointment occasion such a shock as in your present state you may be incapable of sustaining; but still have hope, for the probability is in our favor.”

She shook her head incredulously, and replied, “You do not know the inflexible determination of my father on this point; neither can I conceive what documents you could place before him that would change his purpose.”

“I do not conceive that I am at liberty even to you, Lucy, to mention circumstances that may cast a stain upon high integrity and spotless innocence, so long as it is possible the proofs I speak of may fail.  In the latter case, so far at least as the world is concerned, justice would degenerate into scandal, whilst great evil and little good must be the consequence.  I think I am bound in honor not to place old age, venerable and virtuous, on the one hand, and unsuspecting innocence on the other, in a contingency that may cause them irreparable injury.  I will now say, that if your happiness were not involved in the success or failure of our proceedings, I should have ceased to be a party in the steps we are taking until the grave had closed upon one individual at least, while unconscious of the shame that was to fall upon his family.”

Lucy looked upon him with a feeling of admiration which could not be misunderstood.  “Dear Charles,” she exclaimed; “ever honorable—­ever generous—­ever considerate and unselfish; I do not of course understand your allusions; but I am confident that whatever you do will be done in a spirit worthy of yourself.”

The look of admiration, and why should we not add love, which Lucy had bestowed upon him was observed and felt deeply.  Their eyes met, and, seizing her hand again, he whispered, in that low and tender voice which breathes the softest and most contagious emotion of the heart, “Alas, Lucy, you could not even dream how inexpressibly dear you are to me.  Without you, life to me will possess no blessing.  All that I ever conceived of its purest and most exalted enjoyments were centred in you, and in that sweet communion which I thought we were destined to hold together; but now, now—­oh, my God, what a blank will my whole future existence be without you!”