a thing perfectly intelligible, but to witness his smile, or rather his effort at one, was to witness an unnatural phenomenon of the most awful kind, and little short of a prodigy.  If one could suppose the sun giving a melancholy and lugubrious grin through the darkness of a total eclipse, they might form some conception of the jocular solemnity which threw its deep but comic shadow over his visage.  One might expect the whole machinery of the face, with as much probability as that of a mill, to change its habitual motions, and turn in an opposite direction.  It seemed, in fact, as if a general breaking up of the countenance was about to take place, and that the several features, like a crew of thieves and vagabonds flying from the officers of justice, were all determined to provide for themselves.

Lucy saw at a glance that her father was about to get into one of those tender and complacent moods which were few and far between, and, made wise by experience, she very properly conjectured, from his appearance, that some deep design was concealed under it.  Anxious, therefore, to avoid a prolonged dialogue, and feeling, besides, her natural candor and invincible love of truth to a certain extent outraged by this treacherous assumption of cordiality, she resolved to commence the conversation.

“Has anything agreeable happened; papa?”

“Agreeable, Lucy, ahem!—­why, yes—­something agreeable has happened.  Now, Lucy, poor foolish girl, would it not have been better to have placed confidence in me with respect to this lover of yours?  Who can feel the same interest in your happiness that I do?”

“None, certainly, sir; unless some one whose happiness may probably depend on mine.”

“Yes, your lover—­well, that now is a natural enough distinction; but still, you foolish, naughty girl, don’t you know that you are to inherit my wealth and property, and that they will make you happy?  You silly thing, there’s a truth for you.”

“Were you yourself happy, papa, when we separated this morning?  Are you happy this moment?  Are you generally happy?  Is there no rankling anxiety—­no project of ambition—­no bitter recollection corroding your heart?  Does the untimely loss of my young brother, who would have represented and sustained your name, never press heavily upon it?  I ask again, Papa, are you generally happy?  Yet you are in possession of all the wealth and property you speak of.”

“Tut, nonsense, silly child!  Nothing is more ridiculous than to hear a girl like you, that ought to have no will but mine, reasoning like a philosopher.”

“But, dear papa,” proceeded Lucy, “if you should persist in marrying me to a profligate, merely because he is a nobleman—­oh, how often is that honorable name prostituted!—­and could give me a title, don’t you see how wretched I should be, and how completely your wealth and property would fail to secure my happiness?”