Lucy drew her arm away, and went softly upstairs. Many daughters before now have had to smooth the way before a dying father, and there was nothing required of her in this way that was above her strength; but it was not with her in other things as with others. She was aware how great the change was which would open upon her the moment this aged life had reached its term and all the strange unknown conditions which would surround her. It was not possible for Lucy to thrust away the thought, and comfort herself with indefinite hopes. For years her thoughts had been directed to the catastrophe which was to be so momentous for her; she had never been allowed to ignore it. Her heart still beat loudly at the thought of that which might be coming now--which certainly must come before long. Her father was the center of all her present living--beyond him lay the unknown; but when she went upstairs he was sitting quite cheerfully, as he had been sitting any time these ten years--almost since ever Lucy could remember--in his arm-chair, neither paler nor sadder, nor with any tragical symptoms in him, looking over, with the same air of satisfaction, the same large manuscripts in which, with his own small neat handwriting, he had written down his whole mind. He looked up as she came in, and gave her his usual little nod of welcome; and Lucy’s heart immediately settled down in to its usual calm. She took her usual seat beside him. All was as it had been for years in the familiar room; it was not, however, the familiar room which took any character from its inmates--or rather perhaps it embodied too entirely the character of its old master, who required nothing except his chimney-corner, and had no eye or taste for those niceties which reign in a lady’s sitting-room, even when not a Queen Anne parlor of the newest old-fashion, like that of Mrs. Stone. Lucy had never been used to anything else, yet it repressed all emotion in her when she came into this unemotional place. Die! why should any one ever die? Would not to-day be as yesterday forever, and every hour the same? “I have had Rushton here,” said the old man; “how fat that man is getting at his age! I don’t suppose he’s fifty yet. I am glad I am not one of the fat kind, Lucy; it must be such a trouble. And to think I remember him a slim boy, not much higher than you are. Hasn’t he got a son?” “Yes, papa; Raymond. I used to play with him when I was little. He is quite grown up now. Mrs. Rushton was telling me about him--” “Take my advice, Lucy,” said her father, interrupting her, “and don’t, however it may be pressed upon you, marry a man out of Farafield. Plenty will try for you--very likely Raymond himself. I thought there was something in Rushton’s eye--it was that made me think of it. Don’t marry a man from here. There’s nothing but paltry sort of people here.”