stages of it went on smoothly enough, and as
a matter of course: to him, she could not guess
what a struggle it brought.

When she entered, on this day of the anonymous
letter, she saw that gloom and embarrassment
was over him, and, after some hesitation,
he said to her:

"My dearest Miss Lulu, if I may call you
so, I am now nearly well—in fact, well; and I
can only say, if I was to have been attended by
Doctor White alone, I should never have got
through. If I dared to speak all I feel in the
way of the deepest gratitude——"

"Gratitude," said Lucy, impetuously, "for
what? Coming across the street? It was a
pleasure to me—the greatest delight. And,
though I felt, and we all felt, for what you
suffered, still, I must say, it will long be for
me such a happy time to look back to."

"A very happy time," he repeated, hurriedly,
"though I felt the pain. But that is what I
have been trying to shut my eyes to all this
time, hoping that all this would merely fall
into the shape of a common convalescence, or
perhaps—which might have been the best solution
—things might have taken another turn,
and settled for me in the most satisfactory
way of all. But now, dear Lucy, you won't
think me ungrateful if I say I must go away,
and, if at once, all the better. I ought not to
have stayed here—should never have come here."

Lucy looked at him with a face in which
wonder and pain were compounded. "Why
should you say this?" she asked. "Have we
offended you? Go away! I thought you were
to stay months; and poor Jaques——"

He smiled. "Poor Jaques would not be
the difficulty. Offended me? No! Alas! very
far from that! But it is better, and I have
thought it over deeply, anxiously, and miserably
—it is better I should get away with all speed.
As it is, I have suffered, and shall suffer, for
coming——"

Suddenly it flashed on her. Her little
heroic look came into her face. She spoke
with a mixture of enthusiasm and scorn, "with
quite a touch of Joan of Arc," as her father said
of her, once.

"I know—I know it all, now. It is some
of this wretched talk. These stories: they have
been sending you these papers. It is base and
contemptible, and those who are really pure and
innocent can despise them. If it be only that, you
must not go away. We are now only beginning
to know you. Stay, to oblige me, and," here her
lip curled, "if only to show the creatures round
us how heartily we loathe and despise them."

Who can argue with a bit of nature like
this? Such defiance is irresistible. What could
the patient do but sigh, look at her with smiling
admiration, and yield? Still, she could not
help noticing that he was growing more dejected,
and Jaques's wife came to tell her she feared
the poor brave gentleman had some sore trouble
on his mind, for he looked so worn and fatigued;
"and," she added, with mystery, "always
walking—walking about his room!" Oh, miss,
he has some little sweet pain (douleur) at his
heart, and I think I can guess." So she could;
for she was an expert; and this little insinuation
was exquisitely welcome, bringing a faint colour
into Lucy's cheeks. From these premises we
may conceive how things were hurrying forward,
on the immemorial principles; and though Lucy
was pained at times by a return of the colonel's
curious doubts, still it was plain to the whole
town what was going on.

Mr. Dacres had seen it from the first, "with
half an eye," to use his favourite expression.
He gave the dear girl "the reins on her neck;"
for, as he assured his friends, "nature—nature,
sir, with her unerring instinct, will guide her
straight." He looked on, smiling, and secretly
approved of the whole. "Let Lulu chalk out her
own little course. God forbid I should put stay,
let, or impediment in the way of my child's
happiness." He, indeed, infinitely preferred this
new arrangement; for he had, himself, fallen
into the habit of going over and sitting with
his friend, cheering him up, by telling him
some of his best circuit stories, which the other
did not in the least care for, and talking with
fatherly rapture over the perfections of Lulu.

"She'd put her hands under my feet, sir, that
girl. Very curious, she is, in her little way. I
would no more attempt to control her than
I would that poker. Yet she'd do anything
for me and for poor mamma. She treats me
like a brother. It's Harco here, and Harco
there! Only last week I said I couldn't have
her running wild, in and out, in this way—
troubling you in this sort of way—when a man
wants to get well, you know. Well, sir, I might
as well have spoken to that ormolu pendule.
'What,' says she, 'Harco, give up the only little
treat I have in the day—the only gleam of
sunshine in this gloomy place—the little holiday
hour I look forward to? I can't, indeed, Harco.'"

Mr. Dacres had made inquiries at home about
Colonel Vivian, found that he was a man of
property, and in command of a regiment out
at Gibraltar; in short, discovered that the
colonel's account of himself was borne out by
collateral evidence—a state of things always
to any one's credit in that colony. The
protracted absence of West offended him. It was
nice work, slipping away in that fashion—no
letters—no excuses! What was the fellow
about? And he dwelt long on this as a grievance.
Then he would come back to his Lulu.

"I don't know what's over her. There's a
restlessness—a disinclination to meet her father's
eye. The child has something on her mind, and
she won't tell. But I'll find out. Yet you know,
my dear colonel, there's a delicacy in these things
—to be probing the heart of your own child—to
be sitting like a coroner, and taking evidence.
No, I can't do it, though other fathers may."

After such an interview, Colonel Vivian would
be heard tramping up and down, and any
inquisitive maid, at the door, would have heard
him say, almost in an agony, "I must go—I
dare not remain!"

But he did remain, and grew strong again,