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"
"I am not sorry for resembling my dear father, Lucy," observed her
brother; "and I know I shall lose nothing in your good will on that
account, but rather gain by it."
Lucy's eyes were already filled with tears at the ungenerous and
unfeeling insinuation of her father.
"You shall not, indeed, Thomas," she replied; "and you, papa, are
scarcely just to me in saying so. I judge no person by their external
appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be prejudiced by looks, although
I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to
the character. I judge my friends by my experience of their conduct--by
their heart--their principles--their honor. Good-by, now, my dear
brother; I am quite impatient to hear your history, and I am sure you
will gratify me as soon as you can."
She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, observed
under every nail a semicircular line of black drift that jarred very
painfully on her feelings. Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead,
and she withdrew.


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