I come, Never again shall you reproach me with
disobedience. Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I
should become the victim of an error which originates in affection for
myself? I yield at last, as is my duty; now your situation makes it so;
and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace
between us. Farewell, now, to love--to love legitimate, pure, and
holy!--farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of life
which follow it--farewell to peace of! heart--to the wife's pride of
eye, to the husband's tender glance--farewell--farewell to everything in
this wretched life but the hopes of heaven! I come, my father--I come.
But I had forgotten," she said, "I must not see him without permission,
nor unannounced, as Gibson said. Stay, I shall ring for Gibson."

"Gibson," said she, when he had made his appearance, "try if your master
could see me for a moment; say I request it particularly, and that I
shall scarcely disturb him. Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill
indeed--and even then do so."

Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feeling that it might be
dangerous to agitate her father by the exhibition of emotion, endeavored
to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson's
return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic. In fact, the
greatness--the heroic spirit--of the coming sacrifice emanated like a
beautiful but solemn light from her countenance, and on being desired to
go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and composure.

On entering, she found her father much in the same position: his head,
as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy
brows.

"You wished to see me, my dear Lucy. Have you any favor to ask, my
child? If so, ask whilst I have recollection and consciousness to grant
it. I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy. I was wrong ever to struggle
with you. It was too much for me, for I am now the victim; but even that
is well, for I am glad it is not you."

When he mentioned the word victim, Lucy felt as if a poniard had gone
through her heart; but she had already resolved that what must be done
should be done generously, consequently, without any ostentation of
feeling, and with as little appearance of self-sacrifice as possible.

It is not for us, she said to herself, to exaggerate the value of the
gift which we bestow, but rather to depreciate it, for it is never
generous to magnify an obligati