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‘Off with him to Siberia, red whiskers and all; I say, I don’t like him, Polly, and I wonder that you should.’

‘Papa,’ said she, ‘do you know you are very naughty? I never saw you look so disagreeable, so unjust, so almost vindictive before. There is an expression in your face which does not belong to you.’

‘Off with him!’ pursued Mr. Home, who certainly did look sorely crossed and annoyed—even a little bitter; ‘but, I suppose, if he went, Polly would pack a bundle and run after him; her heart is fairly won—won, and weaned from her old father.’

‘Papa, I say it is naughty, it is decidedly wrong, to talk in that way. I am not weaned from you, and no human being and no mortal influence can wean me.’

‘Be married, Polly! Espouse the red whiskers. Cease to be a daughter; go and be a wife!’

‘Red whiskers! I wonder what you mean, papa. You should take care of prejudice. You sometimes say to me that all the Scotch, your countrymen, are the victims of prejudice. It is proved now, I think, when no distinction is to be made between red and deep nut-brown.’

‘Leave the prejudiced old Scotchman; go away.’

She stood looking at him a minute. She wanted to show firmness, superiority to taunts; knowing her father’s character, guessing his few foibles, she had expected the sort of scene which was now transpiring; it did not take her by surprise, and she desired to let it pass with dignity, reliant upon reaction. Her dignity stood her in no stead. Suddenly her soul melted in her eyes; she fell on his neck:—

‘I won’t leave you, papa; I’ll never leave you. I won’t pain you; I’ll never pain you!’ was her cry.

‘My lamb! my treasure!’ murmured the loving though rugged sire. He said no more for the moment; indeed, those two words were hoarse.

The room was now darkening. I heard a movement, a step without. Thinking it might be a servant coming with candles, I gently opened, to prevent intrusion. In the ante-room stood no servant; a tall gentleman was placing his hat on the table, drawing off his gloves slowly—lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said:—

‘Lucy, come here.’ And I went.

Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation which now fevered him.

‘Mr. de Bassompierre is there—is he not?’ he inquired, pointing to the library.

‘Yes.’

‘He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?’

‘Yes, Graham.’

‘I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is she?’

‘Mr. Home’ (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times) ‘is talking to his daughter.’

‘Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!’

He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to write mortal, but such words ill apply to one all living like him)—a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never faded.

‘Is he very angry, Lucy?’

‘She is very faithful, Graham.’

‘What will be done unto me?’

‘Graham, your star must be fortunate.’

‘Must it? Kind prophet! So cheerful, I should be a faint heart indeed to quail. I think I find all women faithful, Lucy. I ought to love them, and I do. My mother is good; she is divine; and you are true as steel. Are you not?’

‘Yes, Graham.’

‘Then give me thy hand, my little god-sister; it is a friendly little hand to me, and always has been. And now for the great venture. God be with the right! Lucy, say, Amen!’

He turned, and waited till I said ‘Amen!’—which I did to please him: the old charm, in doing as he bid me, came back. I wished him success; and successful I knew he would be. He was born victor, as some are born vanquished.

‘Follow me!’ he said; and I followed him into Mr. Home’s presence.

‘Sir,’ he asked, ‘what is my sentence?’

The father looked at him; the daughter kept her face hid.

‘Well, Bretton,’ said Mr. Home, ‘you have given me the usual reward of hospitality. I entertained you; you have taken my best. I was always glad to see you; you were glad to see the one precious thing I had. You spoke me fair; and, meantime,