“His last! Lucy. Well, then, see him—there is a great deal due to a last request.”
“Oh, yes, I shall see him. Well, good-by, papa. Remember now that you take the composing draught; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord Dunroe.”
She was closing the door, when he recalled her. “Lucy,” said he, “come here.”
“Well, papa; well, dearest papa?”
“Kiss me again,” said he.
She stooped as before, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him like a child. He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same long earnest look, and putting it to his lips, kissed it; and as he did, Lucy felt a tear fall upon it. “Lucy,” said he, “I have one word to say to you.”
Lucy was already in tears; that one little drop—the symptom of an emotion she had never witnessed before—and she trusted the forerunner of a softened and repentant heart, had already melted hers.
“Lucy,” he said, “forgive me.”
The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes were opened at once. She threw herself on his bosom; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly.
He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like calmness, into which he had passed from his frenzy.