“You forget—­my aunt.”

“Ay, but what security is there that she will not give you another uncle?”

“Oh, fie, Ralph!”

“Ay, she is too feeble of will, too weak, to be independent.  She will marry again, Lucy, and is not the woman to choose wisely.  Besides, she is not your natural aunt.  She is so by marriage only.  The tie between you is one which gives her no proper claim upon you.”

“She has been kind to me, Ralph.”

“Yet she would have seen you sacrificed to this outlaw!”

Lucy shuddered.  He continued:—­

“Her kindness, lacking strength and courage, would leave you still to be sacrificed, whenever a will, stronger than her own, should choose to assert a power over you.  She can do nothing for you—­not even for your security.  You must not remain here, Lucy.”

“Frankly, then, Ralph, I do not mean to do so long; nor does my aunt mean it.  She is feeble, as you say; and, knowing it, I shall succeed in persuading her to sell out here, and we shall then remove to a more civilized region, to a better society, where, indeed, if you knew it, you would find nothing to regret, and see no reason to apprehend either for my securities or tastes.  We shall seek refuge among my kindred—­among the relatives of my mother—­and I shall there be as perfectly at home, and quite as happy, as I can be any where.”

“And where is it that you go, Lucy?”

“Forgive me, Ralph, but I must not tell you.”

“Not tell me!”

“Better that I should not—­better, far better!  The duties for which the high Providence brought us together have been, I think, fairly accomplished.  I have done my part, and you, Mr. Colleton—­Ralph, I mean—­you have done yours.  There is nothing more that we may not do apart.  Here, then, let our conference end.  It is enough that you have complied with the dying wish of my uncle—­that I have not, is not your fault.”

“Not my fault, Lucy, but truly my misfortune.  But I give not up my hope so easily.  I still trust that you will think better of your determination, and conclude to go with us.  We have a sweet home, and should not be altogether so happy in it, with the thought of your absence for ever in our minds.”

“What!—­not happy, and she with you!”

“Happy!—­yes!—­but far happier with both of you.  You, my sister, and—­”

“Say no more—­”

“No more now, but I shall try other lips, perhaps more persuasive than mine.  Edith shall come—­”

His words were suddenly arrested by the energetic speech and action of his companion.  She put her hand on his wrist—­grasped it—­and exclaimed—­

“Let her not come!  Bring her not here, Ralph Colleton!  I have no wish to see her—­will not see her, I tell you—­would not have her see me for the world!”

Ralph was confounded, and recoiled from the fierce, spasmodic energy of the speaker, so very much at variance with the subdued tone of her previous conversation.  He little knew what an effort was required hitherto, on her part, to maintain that tone, and to speak coolly and quietly of those fortunes, every thought of which brought only disappointment and agony to her bosom.