and every feature almost identical, there might be read in the countenance of her brother a low, commonplace expression, that looked as if it were composed of effrontery, cunning, and profligacy.  Lucy for a moment shrank back from such a countenance, and the shock of disappointment chilled the warmth with which she had been prepared to receive him.  But, then, her generous heart told her that she might probably be prejudging the innocent—­that neglect, want of education, the influence of the world, and, worst of all, distress and suffering, might have caused the stronger, more vulgar, and exceedingly disagreeable expression which she saw before her; and the reader is already aware of the consequences which these struggles, at their first interview, had upon her.  Subsequently to that, however, Mr. Ambrose, in supporting his father’s views, advanced principles in such complete accordance with them, as to excite in his sister’s breast, first a deep regret that she could not love him as she had hoped to do; then a feeling stronger than indifference itself, and ultimately one little short of aversion.  Her father had been now gone about half an hour, and she hoped that her brother might not come, when a servant came to say that Mr. Gray was in the drawing-room, and requested to see her.

She felt that the interview would be a painful one to her; but still he was her brother, and she knew she could not avoid seeing him.

After the first salutations were over,

“What is the matter with you, Lucy?” he asked; “you look ill and distressed.  I suppose the old subject of the marriage—­eh?”

“I trust it is one which you will not renew, Thomas.  I entreat you to spare me on it.”

“I am too much your friend to do so, Lucy.  It is really inconceivable to me why you should oppose it as you do.  But the truth is, you don’t know the world, or you would think and act very differently.”

“Thomas,” she replied, whilst her eyes filled with tears, “I am almost weary of life.  There is not one living individual to whom I can turn for sympathy or comfort.  Papa has forbidden me to visit Lady Gourlay or Mrs. Mainwaring; and I am now utterly friendless, with the exception of God alone.  But I will not despair—­so long, at least, as reason is left to me.”

“I assure you, Lucy, you astonish me.  To you, whose imagination is heated with a foolish passion for an adventurer whom no one knows, all this suffering may seem very distressing and romantic; but to me, to my father, and to the world, it looks like great folly—­excuse me, Lucy—­or rather like great weakness of character, grounded upon strong obstinacy of disposition.  Believe me, if the world were to know this you would be laughed at; and there is scarcely a mother or daughter, from the cottage to the castle, that would not say, ’Lucy Gourlay is a poor, inexperienced fool, who thinks she can find a world of angels, and paragons, and purity to live in.’”