mind
was full of somebody else--a very fine young fellow, no doubt; but--my
darling, I won't say a word against him, only you know what I mean too
well. And are you forever to be like a nun because it has pleased the
Lord to take him from you?"

"Lord Dashville has not advanced himself in my good opinion, if he cares
for that," said Faith, starting sideways, as a woman always does, from
the direct issue, "by going to you, when I declined to have anything
more to say to him."

"My dear, you are unjust," replied Sir Charles; "not purposely, I know,
for you are the most upright darling that can be, in general. But you
accuse young Dashville of what he never did. It was his good mother, the
Countess of Blankton, a most kind-hearted and lady-like person, without
any nonsense about her, who gave me the best cup of tea I ever tasted,
and spoke with the very best feeling possible. She put it so sweetly
that I only wish you could have been there to hear her."

"Father, what is the good of it all? You hate turncoats even worse than
traitors. Would you like your daughter to be one? And when she would
seem to have turned her coat--for the ladies wear coats now, the horrid
ugly things!--for the sake of position, and title, and all that. If Lord
Dashville had been a poor man, with his own way to make in the world, a
plain Mister, there might have been more to be said for it. But to
think that I should throw over my poor darling because he will come home
without a penny, and perhaps tattoed, but at any rate turned black, for
the sake of a coronet, and a heap of gold--oh, father, I shall break
down, if you go on so!"

"My dear girl, I will not say a word to vex you. But you are famous for
common-sense, as well as every other good quality, and I would ask you
to employ just a little of it. Can you bear me to speak of your trouble,
darling?"

"Oh yes, I am so well accustomed to it now; and I know that it is
nothing compared to what thousands of people have to bear. Sometimes I
am quite ashamed of giving way to it."

"You do not give way to it, Faith. No person can possibly say that of
you. You are my brave, unselfish, cheerful, sweet-natured, upright, and
loving child. Nobody knows, but you and I--and perhaps I know it even
more than you do--the greatness of the self-command you use, to be
pleasant and gay and agreeable, simply for the sake of those around
you."

"Then, father," cried Faith, who was surprised at this, for the Ad