hter, papa!" And still she clung to him; and still
those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring
him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she
kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft
but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly
as before. "Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa--have pity upon your
child!"

"What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl? I am willing
to do anything I can to promote your happiness. What is it you want?"

"I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me. Oh, relent! as
you hope for heaven's mercy, pity me. I have, for your sake, undertaken
too much. I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself. I
will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will
be gone. You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake,
papa. Look upon me! I am your only child--your only child--your
last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one
miserable--miserable--mad! Only have compassion on me, and release me
from this engagement."

The baronet's eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and
he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with
hope.

"Oh, speak, papa," she exclaimed, "speak. I see, I feel that you are
about to give me comfort--to fill my heart with joy."

"I am, indeed, Lucy. Listen to me, and restrain yourself. You are not my
only child!"

"What!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, papa? What is it?"

"Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout
about what I am going to say. Your brother is found--my son Thomas is
found--and you will soon see him; he will be here presently. Get rid of
this foolish dream you've had, and prepare to receive him!"

"My brother!" she exclaimed, "my brother! and have I a brother? Then God
has not deserted me; I shall now have a friend. My brother!--my brother!
But is it possible, or am I dreaming still? Oh, where is he, papa? Bring
me to him!--is he in the house? Or where is he? Let the carriage be
ordered, and we will both go to him. Alas, what may not the poor boy
have suffered! What privations, what necessities, what distress and
destitution may he not have suffered! But that matters little; come to
him. In want, in rags, in misery, he is welcome--yes, welcome; and, oh,
how much more if he has suffered."

"Have patience, child; he will be her