d Alley, "it's aisy seen that your heart is softened now;
but in truth, miss, it was quare affection that would make his daughter
miserable, bekase he wanted her to become a great lady. If he was a
kind and raisonable father, he would not force you to be unhappy. An
affectionate father would give up the point rather than make you so; but
no; the truth is simply this, he wanted to gratify himself more than he
did you, or why would he act as he did?"

"Alice," replied Lucy, "remember that I will not suffer you to speak of
my father with disrespect. You forget yourself, girl, and learn from me
now, that in order to restore him to peace of mind and health, in order
to rescue him from death, and oh," she exclaimed involuntarily, "above
all things from a death, for which, perhaps, he is not sufficiently
prepared--as who, alas, is for that terrible event!--yes in order to
do this, I am ready to yield an implicit obedience to his wishes: and I
pray heaven that this act on my part may not be too late to restore him
to his health, and relieve his mind from the load of care which presses
it down upon my account."

"Good Lord, Miss Gourlay," exclaimed poor Alley, absolutely frightened
by the determined and vehement spirit in which these words were uttered,
"surely you wouldn't think of makin' a saickerfice of yourself that
way?"

"That may be the word, Alice, or it may not; but if it be a sacrifice,
and if the sacrifice is necessary, it shall be made--I shall make it. My
disobedience shall never break my father's heart."

"I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of your father, miss; but I think
he's an ambitious man."

"And perhaps the ambition which he feels is a virtue, and one in which
I am deficient. You and I, Alice, know but little of life and the maxims
by which its great social principles are regulated."

"Faith, spake for yourself, miss; as for me, I'm the very girl that has
had my experience. No less than three did I manfully refuse, in spite
of both father and mother. First there was big Bob Broghan, a giant of
a fellow, with a head and pluck upon him that would fill a mess-pot. He
had a chape farm, and could afford to wallow like a swine in filth and
laziness. And well becomes the old couple, I must marry him, whether I
would or not. Be aisy, said I, it's no go; when I marry a man, it'll be
one that'll know the use of soap and wather, at all events. Well, but I
must; I did not know what was for my own good; he was