In the sad moonlight，she clasped him by the neck，and laid herface upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad，as the light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its coming and its going.
'Dearest dear！Can you tell me，this last time，that you feel quite，quite sure，no new affections of mine，and no new duties of mine，will ever interpose between us？I know it well，but do you know it？In your own heart，do you feel quite certain？'
Her father answered，with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could scarcely have assumed，'Quite sure，my darling！More than that，'he added，as he tenderly kissed her：'my future is far brighter，Lucie，seen through your marriage，than it could have been—nay，than it ever was—without it.'
'If I could hope that，my father！—'
'Believe it，love！Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is，my dear，that it should be so.You，devoted and young，cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted—'She moved her hand towards his lips，but he took it in his，and repeated the word.
'—wasted，my child—should not be wasted，struck aside from the natural order of things—for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this；but，only ask yourself，how could my happiness be perfect，while yours was incomplete？'
'If I had never seen Charles，my father，I should have been quite happy with you.'
He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy without Charles，having seen him；and replied：
'My child，you did see him，and it is Charles. If it had not been Charles，it would have been another.Or，if it had been no other，Ishould have been the cause，and then the dark part of my life would have cast its shadow beyond myself，and would have fallen on you.'
It was the first time，except at the trial，of her ever hearing him refer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her ears；and she remembered it long afterwards.
'See！'said the Doctor of Beauvais，raising his hand towards the moon.'I have looked at her，from my prison-window，when I could not bear her light. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think of her shining upon what I had lost，that I have beaten my head against my prison-walls.I have looked at her，in a state so dull and lethargic，that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full，and the number of perpendicular lines with which I could intersect them.'He added in his inward and pondering manner，as he looked at the moon，'It was twenty either way，I remember，and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.'
The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time，deepened as he dwelt upon it；but，there was nothing to shock her in the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
'I have looked at her，speculating thousands of times upon the unborn child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive.Whether it had been born alive，or the poor mother's shock had killed it.Whether it was a son who would some day avenge his father.（There was a time in my imprisonment，when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.）Whether it was a son who wouldnever know his father's story；who might even live to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own will and act.Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.'
She drew closer to him，and kissed his cheek and his hand.
'I have pictured my daughter，to myself，as perfectly forgetful of me—rather，altogether ignorant of me，and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age，year after year.I have seen her married to a man who knew nothing of my fate.I have altogether perished from the remembrance of the living，and in the next generation my place was a blank.'
'My father！Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who never existed，strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.'
'You，Lucie？It is out of the consolation and restoration you have brought to me，that these remembrances arise，and pass between us and the moon on this last night.—What did I say just now？'
'She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.'
'So！But on other moonlight nights，when the sadness and the silence have touched me in a different way—have affected me with something as like a sorrowful sense of peace，as any emotion that had pain for its foundations could—I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell，and leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her image in the moonlight often，as I now see you；except that I never held her in my arms；it stood between the little grated window and the door.But，you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of？'
'The figure was not；the—the—image；the fancy？'
'No. That was another thing.It stood before my disturbedsense of sight，but it never moved.The phantom that my mind pursued，was another and more real child.Of her outward appearance I know no more than that she was like her mother.The other had that likeness too—as you have—but was not the same.Can you follow me，Lucie？Hardly，I think？I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions.'
His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running cold，as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
'In that more peaceful state，I have imagined her，in the moonlight，coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture was in her room，and I was in her prayers.Her life was active，cheerful，useful；but my poor history pervaded it all.'
'I was that child，my father. I was not half so good，but in my love that was I.'
