to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your lips. Are you glad
to see me, papa?--but I forget myself; perhaps I am disturbing you. Only
say how you feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint
is."

"My complaint, dear Lucy, most affectionate child--for I see you are so
still, notwithstanding reports and appearances--"

"Oh, indeed, I am, papa--indeed I am."

"My complaint was brought on by anxiety and distress of mind--I will not
say why--I did, I know, I admit, wish to see you in a position of life
equal to your merits; but I cannot talk of that--it would disturb me;
it is a subject on which, alas! I am without hope. I am threatened
with apoplexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say which; but the
danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting,
it is true, upon a plethoric system of body; but I care not, dear
Lucy--I care not, now; I am indifferent to life. All my expectations
--all a father's brilliant plans for his child, are now over. The doctor
says that ease of mind might restore, but I doubt it now; I fear it is
too late. I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know
I shall soon be forced to make. Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved
you until now--I feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must part
with you so soon."

Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the
unsuspecting girl believed it to be. She again threw her arms around
him, and wept as if her very heart would break.

"This agitation, my darling," he added, "is too much for us both. My
head is easily disturbed; but--but--send for Lucy," he exclaimed, as if
touched by a passing delirium, "send for my daughter. I must have Lucy.
I have been harsh to her, and I cannot die without her forgiveness."

"Here, papa--dearest papa! Recollect yourself; Lucy is with you; not to
forgive you for anything, but to ask; to implore to be forgiven."

"Ha!" he said, raising his head a little, and looking round like a man
awakening from sleep. "I fear I am beginning to wander. Dear Lucy--yes,
it is you. Oh, I recollect. Withdraw, my darling; the sight of you--the
joy of your very appearance--eh--eh--yes, let me see. Oh, yes;
withdraw, my darling; this interview has been too much for me--I fear
it has--but rest and silence will restore me, I hope. I hope so--I hope
so."

Lucy, who feared that a continuance of this interview might very much
aggravate his illness, immediately t