to bless my union
with the daughter of Jasper Losely.'"

Waife suppressed a groan, and began to pace the room with disordered
steps,

"But," resumed Lionel, "go to Fawley yourself. Seek Darrell; compare the
reasons for your belief with his for rejecting it. At this moment his
pride is more subdued than I have ever known it. He will go calmly into
the investigation of facts; the truth will become clear. Sir--dear, dear
sir--I am not without a hope."

"A hope that the child I have so cherished should be nothing in the
world to me!"

"--Nothing to you! Is memory such a shadow?--is affection such a
weathercock? Has the love between you and Sophy been only the instinct
of kindred blood? Has it not been hallowed by all that makes Age and
Childhood so pure a blessing to each other, rooted in trials borne
together? Were you not the first who taught her in wanderings, in
privations, to see a Mother in Nature, and pray to a Father which is in
Heaven? Would all this be blotted out of your soul, if she were not the
child of that son whom it chills you to remember? Sir, if there be
no tie to replace the mere bond of kindred, why have you taken such
vigilant pains to separate a child from him whom you believe to be her
father?"

Waife stood motionless and voiceless. This passionate appeal struck him
forcibly.

"And, sir," added Lionel, in a lower, sadder tone--"can I ask you, whose
later life has been one sublime self-sacrifice, whether you would rather
that you might call Sophy grandchild, and know her wretched, than know
her but as the infant angel whom Heaven sent to your side when bereaved
and desolate, and know also that she was happy? Oh, William Losely, pray
with me that Sophy may not be your grandchild. Her home will not be
less your home--her attachment will not less replace to you your lost
son--and on your knee her children may learn to lisp the same prayers
that you taught to her. Go to Darrell--go--go! and take me with you!"

"I will--I will," exclaimed Waife; and snatching at his hat and staff:
"Come--come! But Sophy should not learn that you have been here--that
I have gone away with you; it might set her thinking, dreaming,
hoping--all to end in greater sorrow." He bustled out of the room
to caution the old woman, and to write a few hasty lines to Sophy
herself--assuring her, on his most solemn honour, that he was not now
flying from her to resume his vagrant life--that, without fail, please
Heaven, he would