unworthy. Perhaps—why not? I am young, my nerves are not weak, my brain is not dull, perhaps I may in some field of honourable adventure win a name, that before my death-bed I may not blush to acknowledge to her!"
While this resolve beat high within Clifford's breast, Lucy sadly and in silence was continuing with the Squire her short journey to Bath. The latter was very inquisitive to know why Clifford had gone, and what he had avowed; and Lucy scarcely able to answer, threw every thing on the promised letter of the night.
"I am glad," muttered the Squire to her, "that he is going to write, for somehow or other, though I questioned him very tightly, he slipped through my cross-examination, and bursting out at once, as to his love for you, left me as wise about himself as I was before, no doubt—(for my own part I don't see what should prevent his being a great man incog.)—this letter will explain all!"
Late that night the letter came; Lucy, for-
