know you will be severely tried, my dear Lucy."

"Know me aright, Charles. I have been severely tried. Many a girl, I am
sorry to say, would forget Dunroe's profligacy in his rank. Many a
girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet; for
ambition--the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all
kinds of ambition--that of rank, title, the right of precedence--is
unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as
such it is felt. Be it so, Charles; let me remain unfashionable and
vulgar. Perish the title if not accompanied by worth; fling the gaudy
coronet aside if it covers not the brow of probity and honor. Retain
those, dear Charles--retain worth, probity, and honor--and you retain a
heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and
true dignity."

The stranger gave her a long gaze of admiration, and exclaimed, deeply
affected,

"Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world. Your spirit is too
pure, too noble for common life. Like some priceless gem, it sparkles
with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of mankind
to appreciate."

"No such thing, Charles: you quite overrate me; but God forbid that
the possession of virtue and good dispositions should ever become a
disqualification for this world. It is not so; but even if it were,
provided I shine in the estimation of my own little world, by which
I mean the affection of him to whom I shall unite my fate, then I am
satisfied: his love and his approbation shall constitute my coronet and
my honor."

The stranger was absolutely lost in admiration and love, for he felt
that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an eloquence and an
energy to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresistible.

"My dear life," said he, "the music of your words, clothing, as it does,
the divine principles they utter, must surely resemble the melody of
heaven's own voices. For my part, I feel relaxed in such a delicious
rapture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before--entranced, as
it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness. But, dearest
Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father? Have you
heard from him? Have you written to him? Is he aware of your present
residence?"

"No," she replied; "he is not aware of my present residence, but I have
written to him. I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and
to diminish his anx