chuckling, "it falls cruelly on you. Let us,
one and all, devoutly pray that White may not
get his fees; though one of the lies of this
lying place is, that Vivian has, or will have,
a good two thousand a year. My good Mac,
didn't you learn in your own country that
girls won't stick at a trifle for that? and I tell
you, my friend, with this care of a man in that
state—' I'll only take my medicine from your
hand;' 'When the damps are on my brow, a
ministering angel thou'—and all that flummery,
he gets soft, and tender, and weak. If she's
worth a pinch of salt, she'll land him easy."

"And by what arts?" asked the doctor,
vehemently. "It's a conspiracy between her and
that fellow White. I should blush, sir, for
one of my own daughters. If it was to get ten
times two thousand a year——"

"Folly, Mac. We know about that. The
dear girl, Lulu, is on the right side of the
hedge, where you'd wish one of your sweet
ones to be. What difference does a story or
two make? The scandal-mongers here may
talk, provided the curtain comes down well at
last on the village church and the parson."

That even the name of the innocent Lulu, as
pure and gentle a nature as ever came into the
world, should be thus sullied, seemed shocking;
but the license of the place spared nothing, and
was all the more directly challenged by a view of
simplicity and nature, which, it considered, had
no proper place among them. Doctor Macan,
inflamed by the length of Vivian's illness,
moodily poured out fresh griefs and fresh slanders
to every one who would listen to him: "Nice
business—a young girl of eighteen waiting on
this officer, sitting all alone by his bedside. It's
a scandal and a shame. I'd like to see one of
my daughters, &c."

The picture, it must be owned, was not a bit
overdrawn. Lucy—the sick man's lodging
being only at the other side of the street—was
always fluttering across. Lucy considered it
a sacred duty to be in attendance. Even the
young landlady and her husband, having the
deepest sympathy, thought of their own love
and difficulty, and prayed that Lucy's care
of Vivian might be rewarded. Two such
tender hearts, two such handsome figures,
were surely made for each other. He was
made for her; she for him. He must, if he had
the soul of honour—which he had surely—on his
recovery, lay all at her feet.

No vestige of such a thought found its way
into Lucy's head. She was doing a glorious
duty, for the sake of one who, she had a
conviction in her heart of hearts, had suffered
cruelly from some unknown persecution. Her
father—now gloomy, now in absurdly high
spirits—looked on passively and smiled. "The
dear girl! Impulsive, sir, but full of character.
The poor traveller opposite fell among thieves.
Those thieves of the world, the waves that
break upon the shore! A grand spectacle.
Tum tum ti. When the stormy winds do
blo-o-ow. Full of glorious impulses, that
child, sir! There, she trots off over the way
to that fine fellow, who imperilled his life to
save life, sits by him, reads to him, smoothes
his crumpled pillow. There it is; we know
the value of women, though, God knows,
we treat 'em cavalierly enough when we have
health and wealth and strength." This remark
Mr. Dacres made in a personally reproachful
way to a friend, though no one realised its
truth better than he did himself.

The quick-eyed reader will see to what things
are tending. The colonel recovered slowly,
and presently was sitting up in his little salon,
Doctor White infinitely satisfied with the
progress made; having falsified the dark prophecy
made by Doctor Macan: "Mark my words!
He won't stick at manslaughter, if it suits his
plans." Towards Doctor White, Lucy felt much
kindness and gratitude, and spoke, in her
impulsive way, and everywhere, of his great
cleverness. It was a pity discretion had not
been one of the extras taught at Miss Pringle's
establishment. Lucy had cleverness, wit,
tenderness, softness, affection; but she wanted
this most precious of all qualities. Yet her
behaviour was natural. She knew she was on
a stage, as it were, before a set of free habitués
in the pit, with their opera-glasses. She despised
them heartily, and wished, by a perverseness,
that she could show them how she despised
them and their whispers, and reports about this
matter, that now began to reach her. It only
made her more loyal than ever to her friend. One
day came an anonymous letter in jingling rhyme,
and which could only be called anonymous by
courtesy, as somehow many people had seen a
copy, and the witty production was considered
one of young Daly's happiest efforts. The
rhymes were in this strain:

Oh, who would not be such a good-looking colonel?
Attended so nicely in watches nocturnal?
With Lucy for nurse, may my pains be eternal!

Lucy's eyes flashed, and her cheeks blazed, as
she read this doggrel. She crumpled it up,
flung it into the grate, and, with a proud
independence, crossed over at once, and went
in to see her patient. She wished the whole
colony of the recreant, malicious creatures,
who stabbed in the dark, could be drawn up
in two lines to see her cross and go in—she
despised them so heartily. Vivian was sitting
up, pale, but growing stronger every hour, when
she entered. With him, as we may conceive, it
was nearly the same as with her.

Yet she was a little surprised, and sometimes
pained, by the sorrowful and disturbed way in
which her patient would look at her, and the
cold restraint and embarrassment that he would
sometimes assume. She would have been under
the impression that she had offended him,
and went away grieved. After such a departure,
"Jacks" and his little wife would hear him
pacing about overhead with wonder; for they
did not dream he had strength for such a thing.
When she came again, he would be all tenderness
and grateful sweetness—a perfect Bayard, as
he seemed to her. With her, indeed, the whole