“My dear, dear Lyddy! My own poor child!” he said, drawing her to his breast and holding her there, while he put out his hand to his son and said:
“How do you do, Clay?”
“I am well, sir, thank you. How do you do yourself?” inquired the dutiful son in an offhand, nonchalant manner.
“As you see me, Clay. Not very well,” replied the grieved father, as he sank into a large cushioned chair that his wife had pushed up to him, and drew his daughter down upon his lap with her head against his shoulder, where she lay sobbing her soul forth in pride and anger—not in love or sorrow. She had not spoken one word as yet since she entered the room.
Clay Legg, as we must henceforth call him, because it is his only right name, threw himself into another armchair and said:
“I am told, sir, that you have something to communicate to us.”
“Yes, I have, Clay. Do not cry so. Lyddy, my dear. I will stand by you. Your father will stand by his daughter, and love her and comfort her, and shelter and protect her against all the world,” he said, turning away from his insolent son and bending over his wildly hysterical daughter.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Clay Legg, “since you have something to communicate, hadn’t you better communicate it?”
“Yes,” replied his father, with a sigh.
“But first,” exclaimed Clay Legg, “here is a stranger present. Are we to discuss private family affairs before a stranger? And who is that person, anyway?” he demanded, jerking his thumb in the direction of Mrs. Legg, who had retired to a short distance and where she sat down.