e that breathed of horror, "do
not kill me."

"Kill you, foolish girl! Now really, Lucy, this is extremely ridiculous
and vexatious too. Is not my daughter a woman of honor?"

"Papa," she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining
her lovely and snowy hands together, in an attitude of the most earnest
and heart-rending supplication; "papa, hear me. You have said that I
saved your life; be now as generous as I was--save mine."

"Lucy," he replied, "this looks like want of principle. You would
violate your promise. I should not wish Dunroe to hear this, or to know
it. He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the woman who
could deliberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the
marriage vow. I do not apply this reasoning to you, but he or others
might. Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep
your word with me, and marry Dunroe on Monday. You will have no
trouble--everything shall be managed by them; a brilliant trousseau can
be provided as well afterwards as before."

Lucy rose up; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have previously
gathered, to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle
upon it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to
its full size.

"Father," said she, "since you will not hear the voice of supplication,
hear that of reason and truth. Do not entertain a doubt, no, not for
a moment, that if I am urged--driven--to this marriage, hateful and
utterly detestable to me as it is, I shall hesitate to marry this man. I
say this, however, because I tell you that I am about to appeal to your
interest in my true happiness for the last time. Is it, then, kind; is
it fatherly in you, sir, to exact from me the fulfilment of a promise
given under circumstances that ought to touch your heart into a generous
perception of the sacrifice which in giving it I made for your sake
alone? You were ill, and laboring under the apprehension of sudden
death, principally, you said, in consequence of my refusal to become
the wife of that man. I saw this; and although the effort was infinitely
worse than death to me, I did not hesitate one moment in yielding up
what is at any time dearer to me than life--my happiness--that you might
be spared. Alas, my dear father, if you knew how painful it is to me to
be forced to plead all this in my own defence, you would, you must, pity
me. A generous heart, almost under any circumstances, sc