“You do me injustice, father.  I have never indulged in such romantic visions, but I cannot willingly unite my fate with one in whom I see no fixed principle of action—­one who owns no guide but pleasure.  His heart may be good, I doubt it not; but I cannot respect one who spends his whole life in fox-hunting, drinking, and all the pleasures peculiar to the members of country clubs.”

“In other words, a plain, honest-speaking, English gentleman is not fine enough for you.  What harm is there in the amusements you have enumerated?  Why should not a fox-hunter make as good a husband as any other member of society?”

Lilla looked at her father in astonishment.  These were not always his sentiments she painfully thought.

“I do not mean to condemn these amusements, my dear father, but when they are carried on without either principle or religion.  How can I venture to intrust my happiness to such a man?”

“And where do you expect to find either principle or religion now?  Not in those polished circles, where I can perceive your hopes are fixed.  Girl, banish such hopes.  Not one amongst them would unite himself to the sister of that dishonoured outcast Cecil Grahame.”

Grahame’s whole frame shook as he pronounced his son’s name, but sternness still characterised his voice.

“Never would I unite myself with one who considered himself degraded by an union with our family, father, be assured,” said Lilla, earnestly.  “My hopes are not high.  I have thought little of marriage, and till I am sought, have no wish to leave this sequestered spot, believe me.”

“And who, think you, will seek you here?  You had better banish such idle hopes, for they will end in disappointment.”

“Be it so, then,” Lilla replied, calmly, though had her father been near her, he would have seen her cheek suddenly become pale and her eyelids quiver, as if by the pressure of a tear.  “Is marriage a thing so indispensable, that you would compel me to leave you, my dear father?”

“To you it is indispensable; when once you have lost the name you now hold, the world and all its pleasures will be spread before you, the stain will be remembered no more; your life need not be spent in gloom and exile like this.”

“And what, then, will become of you?”

“Of me! who cares.  What am I, and what have I ever been to either of my children, that they should care for me?  I scorn the mere act of duty, and which of you can love me? no, Lilla, not even you.”

“Father, you do me wrong; oh, do not speak such cruel words,” said Lilla, springing from her seat, and flinging herself on her knees by her father’s side.  “Have I indeed so failed in testimonies of love, that you can for one instant believe it is only the duty of a child I feel and practise?  Oh, my father, do me not such harsh injustice; could you read my inmost heart, you would see how full it is of love and reverence for you, though I have not always courage to express it.  Ask of me any, every proof but this, and I will do it, but, oh, do not command me to wed Mr. Clapperton; why, oh, why would you thus seek to send me from you?”