She rose to retire, but her father, now having relapsed into all his dark vehemence of temper, exclaimed—­

“Now mark me, madam, before you go.  I say you shall sleep under lock and key this night.  I tell you that I shall use the most rigorous measures with you, the severest, the harshest, that I can devise, or I shall I break that stubborn will of yours.  Do not imagine for one moment that you shall overcome me, or triumph in your disobedience.  No, sooner than you should, I would break your spirit—­I would break your heart”

“Be it so, sir.  I am ready to suffer anything, provided only you will forbear to insult the memory of my mother.”

With these words she sought her own room, where she indulged in a long fit of bitter grief.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, in these painful contests of temper with his candid and high-minded daughter, was by no means so cool and able as when engaged in similar exercitations with strangers.  The disadvantage against him in his broils with Lucy, arose from the fact that he had nothing in this respect to conceal from her.  He felt that his natural temper and disposition were known, and that the assumption of any and every false aspect of character, must necessarily be seen through by her, and his hypocrisy detected and understood.  Not so, however, with strangers.  When manoeuvring with them, he could play, if not a deeper, at least a safer game; and of this he himself was perfectly conscious.  Had his heart been capable of any noble or dignified emotion, he must necessarily have admired the greatness of his daughter’s mind, her indomitable love of truth, and the beautiful and undying tenderness with which her affection brooded over the memory of her mother.  Selfishness, however, and that low ambition which places human happiness in the enjoyment of wealth, and honors, and empty titles, had so completely blinded him to the virtues of his daughter, and to the sacred character of his own duties as a father, bound by the first principles of nature to promote her happiness, without corrupting her virtues, or weakening her moral impressions—­we say these things had so blinded him, and hardened his heart against all the purer duties and responsibilities of life, that he looked upon his daughter as a hardened, disobedient girl, dead to the influence of his own good—­the ambition of the world—­and insensible to the dignified position which awaited her among the votaries of rank and fashion.  But, alas, poor man! how little did he know of the healthy and substantial virtues which confer upon those whose station lies in middle and in humble life, a benevolent and hearty consciousness of pure enjoyment, immeasurably superior to the hollow forms of life and conduct in aristocratic circles, which, like the tempting fruit of the Dead Sea, seem beautiful to the eye, but are nothing more, when tested by the common process of humanity, than ashes and bitterness to the taste.  We do not now speak of a whole class, for wherever human nature is, it will have its virtues as well as its vices; But we talk of the system, which cannot be one of much happiness or generous feeling, so long as it separates itself from the general sympathies of mankind.