“You stupid old lout,” replied the baronet, flying at him, and mauling the unfortunate man without mercy; “take that—­and that—­and that—­for your stupidity.  Why did you not observe the way she went, you! villain?  You have suffered her to elope, you hound!  You have all suffered her to elope with a smooth-faced impostor—­a fellow whom no one knows—­a blackleg—­a swindler—­a thief—­a—­a—­go and saddle half a dozen horses, and seek her in all directions.  Go instantly, and—­hold—­easy—­stop—­hang you all, stop!—­here she is—­and her maid with her—­” he exclaimed, looking out of the window.  “Ha!  I am relieved.  God bless me!  God bless me!” He then looked at the servants with something of deprecation in his face, and waving his hand, said, “Go—­go quietly; and, observe me—­not a word of this—­not a syllable—­for your lives!”

His anger, however, was only checked in mid-volley.  The idea of her having received a clandestine visit from her lover during his absence rankled at his heart; and although satisfied that she was still safe, and in his power, he could barely restrain his temper within moderate limits.  Nay, he felt angry at her for the alarm she had occasioned him, and the passion he had felt at her absence.

“Well, Lucy,” said he, addressing her, as she entered, in a voice chafed with passion, “have you taken your drive?”

“Yes, papa,” she replied; “but it threatened rain, and we returned earlier that usual.”

“You look pale.”

“I dare say I do, sir.  I want rest—­repose;” and she reclined on a lounger as she spoke.  “It is surprising, papa, how weak I am!”

“Not too weak, Lucy, to receive a stolen visit, eh?”

Lucy immediately sat up, and replied with surprise, “A stolen visit, sir?  I don’t understand you, papa.”

“Had you not a visitor here, in my absence?”

“I had, sir, but the visit was intended for you.  Our interview was perfectly accidental.”

“Ah! faith, Lucy, it was too well timed to be accidental.  I’m not such a fool as that comes to.  Accidental, indeed!  Lucy, you should not say so.”

“I am not in the habit of stating an untruth, papa.  The visit, sir—­I should rather say, the interview—­was purely accidental; but I am glad it took place.”

“The deuce you are!  That is a singular acknowledgment, Lucy, I think.”

“It is truth, sir, notwithstanding.  I was anxious to see him, that I might acquaint him with the change that has taken place in my unhappy destiny.  If I had not seen him, I should have asked your permission to write to him.”

“Which I would not have given.”

“I would have submitted my letter to you, sir.”

“Even so; I would not have consented.”

“Well, then, sir, as truth and honor demanded that act from me, I would haye sent it without your consent.  Excuse me for saying this, papa; but you need not be told that there are some peculiar cases where duty to a parent must yield to truth and honor.”