s, or rather the girl's own, if she
only knows them, shall have my most strenuous support."

"Thank you, Tom. I see that you and I are likely to agree thoroughly.
I shall now send for her. She is a superb creature, and less than a
countess I shall not have her."

Lucy, when the servant announced her father's wish to see her, was
engaged in picturing to herself the subject of her brother's personal
appearance. She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on
this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her. With a
flushing, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and
with a trembling hand knocked at the door. On entering, she was about
to rush into her newly-found relative's arms, but, on casting her eyes
around, she perceived her father and him standing side by side, so
startlingly alike in feature, expression, and personal figure, that her
heart, until then bounding with rapture, sank at once, and almost became
still. The quick but delicate instincts of her nature took the alarm,
and a sudden weakness seized her whole frame. "In this young man,"
she said to herself, "I have found a brother, but not a friend; not a
feature of my dear mother in that face."

This change, and this rush of reflection, took place almost in a moment,
and ere she had time to speak she found herself in Mr. Ambrose Gray's
arms. The tears at once rushed to her eyes, but they were not such
tears as she expected to have shed. Joy there was, but, alas, how much
mitigated was its fervency! And when her brother spoke, the strong,
deep, harsh tones of his voice so completely startled her, that she
almost believed she was on the breast of her father. Her tears flowed;
but they were mingled with a sense of disappointment that amounted
almost to bitterness.

Tom on this occasion forebore to enact the rehearsal scene, as he had
done in the case of his father. His sister's beauty, at once melancholy
but commanding, her wonderful grace, her dignity of manner, added to the
influence of her tall, elegant figure, awed him so completely, that he
felt himself incapable of aiming at anything like dramatic effect.
Nay, as her warm tears fell upon his face, he experienced a softening
influence that resembled emotion, but, like his father, he annexed
associations to it that were selfish, and full of low, ungenerous
caution.

"My father's right," thought he; "I must be both cool and firm here,
otherwise it will be difficult