ishonest practices will,
we fear, ever prevent the selfish and ambitious from pursuing the same
courses.

"Sir Thomas," said Dunroe, in a conversation with the baronet held
on the very day after Norton and M'Bride had set out on their secret
expedition, "this marriage is unnecessarily delayed. I am anxious that
it should take place as soon as it possibly can."

"But," replied the baronet, "I have not been able to see your father on
the subject, in consequence of his illness."

"It is not necessary," replied his lordship. "You know what kind of a
man he is. In fact, I fear he is very nearly _non compos_ as it is.
He has got so confoundedly crotchety of late, that I should not feel
surprised if, under some whim or other, he set his face-against it
altogether. In fact, it is useless, and worse than useless, to consult
him at all about it. I move, therefore, that we go on without him."

"I think you are right," returned the other; "and I have not the
slightest objection: name the day. The contract is drawn up, and only
requires to be signed."

"I should say, on Monday next," replied his lordship; "but I fear we
will have objections and protestations from Miss Gourlay; and if so, how
are we to manage?"

"Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord," replied her
father. "I have managed her before and shall manage her now."

His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lucy was immediately sent for, and
as usual found her father in the library.

"Lucy," said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could assume,
"I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make your father
happy at last."

"And myself wretched forever, papa."

"But your word, Lucy--your promise--your honor: remember that promise so
solemnly given; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter."

"Alas! I remember everything, papa; too keenly, too bitterly do I
remember all."

"You will be prepared to marry Dunroe on Monday next. The affair will
be comparatively private. That is to say, we will ask nobody--no
dejeuner--no nonsense. The fewer the better at these matters. Would you
wish to see your brother--hem--I mean Mr. Gray?"

Lucy had been standing while he spoke; but she now staggered over to
a seat, on which she fell rather than sat. Her large, lucid eyes lost
their lustre; her frame quivered; her face became of an ashy paleness;
but still those eyes were bent upon her father.

"Papa," she said, at length, in a low voic