forced themselves into vent, and leaning back against the carriage, she wept, though in silence, tears, burning tears, of sorrow, comfort, agitation, anxiety.
The good old Squire was slow in perceiving his daughter's emotion; it would have escaped him altogether, if actuated by a kindly warming of the heart towards her, originating in his new suspicion of her love for Clifford, he had not put his arm round her neck, and this unexpected caress so entirely unstrung her nerves, that Lucy at once threw herself upon her father's breast, and her weeping, hitherto so quiet, became distinct and audible.
"Be comforted, my dear, dear child!" said the Squire, almost affected to tears himself, and his emotion, arousing him from his usual mental confusion, rendered his words less involved and equivocal than they were wont to be. "And now I do hope that you won't vex yourself; the young man is indeed—and, I do assure you, I always thought so—a very charming gentleman,
