92 



THE LANSBYS OF LANSBY HALL. 



The old man was sitting in a high-backed, open chair, his han^s 

 folded before him, and his eyelids closely pressed together, but 

 evidently not in sleep — the motions of his lips and the fitful con- 

 traction of his brow, showed that the spirit was busy within. At 

 a table beside him sat a young lady, with a shade of settled me- 

 lancholy visible on her subdued, yet noble features. She turned 

 her eyes every now and then from tl)e paper on which she 

 appeared to be sketching, with an expression of anxious affection, 

 to the troubled countenance of her companion. The room ihey 

 sat in was small, and very plainly furnished — the sky was fierce 

 and stormy, and occasionally the old casements rattled loudly, 

 when a wilder burst of wind than usual sent a dash of sleet and 

 hail against the window pane. The old man started from his 

 recumbent position and sat upright, with his eye fixed keenly and 

 harshly on the pale, placid face of his daughter. " Julia Lansby,*' 

 he said, " act the hypocrite no more — speak to me no more in such 

 soothing and gentle tones, but tell me at once boldly and sin- 

 cerely that — that you hate me" — 

 " Father !" 



'* There ! how dare you call me father, which ought to be a 

 name of reverence, of piety, of love, when you well know that in 

 your heart of hearts you detest me as a selfish, cold, unpitying 

 old man ?" 



" You wrong me, father ! Never, even in thought, has my af- 

 fection wandered away from you. I have no hopes, no wishes? 

 no regret, save as they are connected with your happiness. For 

 my own " — here she sighed, and added, after a pause, " I am 

 contented if I only could see you pleased with me — I have no 

 other object now.*' 



" And why not now ? Is it because we are poor you can no 

 lohger be cheerful as you used to be — because we no longer see 

 * company,' as they call it, and have our ball-rooms filled with 

 the grinning sons and daughters of vanity? The loss truly is 

 great. I wonder not at your despair." 



" Oh, father, do not torture me by speaking so unkindly. You 

 know that the loss of fortune, that poverty itself, could never 

 move my regrets." 



" But you have deeper matters for sorrow,*' replied the father, 

 with an ironical sneer. " O, doubtless, you have many more 

 griefs to weigh you down than ever fell upon me ; fortune ruined 



