“Lucy,” said her father, “is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have in personal attendance upon you?”
“I do not defend her conduct now, sir,” she replied; “but I cannot overlook her affection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many other virtues which I know she possesses. She is somewhat singular, I grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wish that her manners were somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be a fine lady with her mistress, although she is not without some harmless vanity; neither is she frivolous, giddy, nor deceitful; and whatever faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heart. It is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I shall look upon her as my friend.”
“I am determined, however, she shall not be long under my roof, nor in your service; her conduct just now has settled that point; but, putting her out of the question, I trust we understand each other, and that you are prepared to make your father's heart happy. No more objections.”
“No, sir; I have said so.”
“You will go through the ceremony with a good grace?'
“I cannot promise that, sir; but I shall go through the ceremony.”
“Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and with as little appearance of reluctance as possible.”
“I have no desire to draw a painful attention to myself, papa; but you will please to recollect that I have all my horror, all my detestation of this match to contend with; and, I may add, my physical weakness, and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, however, go through the ceremony, provided nature and reason do not fail me.”
“Well, Lucy, of course you will do the best you can. I must go now, for I've many things to think of. Your dresses are admirable, and your trousseau, considering the short time Dunroe had, is really superb. Shake hands, my dear Lucy; you know I will soon lose you.”
Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and exclaimed, in a burst of grief: