On Sunday we sat at church, in the same
pew, and often I forgot my own devotions in
listening to the earnest tones with which she s
aid the prayers. I thought that she, of all
that congregation, was best fitted to speak
those words of Christian love. I was vexed
to hear an old overseer of the parish, whom I
knew to be a bad and worldly man, in the
next pew, repeating the same words in a
drawling tone; and I could almost have
requested him to say them to himself.

Thus, ours was not a very cheerful way of l
ife for a young maiden; but she seemed
always happy and contented. For myself,
although I was sorry for the death of my
co-executor, I blessed the day when she came
into the house; and I grieved that I had
objected to become her guardian from the
first, that she might have grown up from
childhood with me, and learnt to look up
to me as a father. Living with her daily, and
noting all her thoughts and actions sometimes
even when she did not suspect that I
observed her, I saw her purer than the purest
of my own ideals. My feeling was almost an
idolatry. If I had, at forty-five years of age,
still any thoughts of marrying, I renounced
them for her sake, and resolved to devote all
my care to her, until such time as she should
find a husband worthy of her.

By an ancient bequest to the Company, we
distributed, on the day before Christmas Day,
to twenty-four poor people, a loaf of bread, a
small log of wood, or bavin, as we called it, and
the sum of two shillings and ten pence to each
person. The recipients were all old decrepid
men and women. There was an ancient
regulation, still unrepealed, that they should all
attend on the following court-day, at noon
precisely, to "return thanks for the same;"
though that performance of mechanical gratitude
had been allowed to fall into disuse
by a more philosophical generation. The first
Christimas after Lucy came there, she begged
me to let her distribute these gifts, and I
consented. I stood at my little desk at the end
of the hall, with my face resting upon my
hand, watching her, and listening to her talking
to the old people. Next to the pleasure
of hearing her speak to little children, I
delighted to hear her talk with very aged
folks. There was something in the contrast
of the two extremes of life—the young and
beautiful maiden, and the bent and wrinkled
old people—hat pleased me. She heard all
their oft-repeated complaints, their dreary
accounts of their agues and rheumatics, and
consoled them as well as she could; and, with
some of the very old, she took their brown
and sinewy hands in hers, and led them down
the steps. I did not know what ailed me
that day. I stood dreaming and musing, till
I seemed to have lost that instinctive dexterity
with which we perform the simple
operations of our daily life. Some accounts
lay before me which I was anxious to cast,
but several times I essayed, and seemed
incapable of doing so. As the simple words of
our daily language, which issue from our lips
simultaneously with the thought, become
vague and indistinct if we muse upon their
origin, and repeat them several times to
ourselves; so by dwelling long upon the idea of
the work before me, it seemed to have
become confused, and difficult to realise. I
handed them over to my clerk, Tom Lawton,
who sat opposite to me.

Poor Tom Lawton! I thought I saw him
looking anxiously at me, several times, when
I raised my eyes. No being upon earth ever l
oved me more than he. It is true, I had done
him some acts of kindness, but I had often
done as much for others, who had forgotten it
since; whereas his gratitude became a real
affection for me, which never failed to show
itself each day that he was with me. He was
a fine young man, and a great favourite with
the housekeeper, who said "she liked him
because he was so good to his mother, just as
she thought her poor son would have been if
he had lived." Tom was fond of reading, and
sometimes wrote verses, of which he made
copies for his friends in a neat hand. He was
a shrewd fellow, in some things, but in others
he was as simple as a child. His temper was
the sweetest in the world—the children knew
that. No diving into his coat-pocket ever
ruffled him; no amount of pulling his hair
could ever induce him to cry out.

Tom was to spend his Christmas Eve with
us, and to make "toast and ale," as was our
custom; so, when the gifts were all distributed,
he left me, and ran home to dress
himself smartly for the occasion. I stood at
my desk, still musing, till the evening closed
upon the short and wintry afternoon. Lucy
came and called me, saying the tea was on
the table.

"We thought you were fallen asleep," said
she. " Mr. Lawton is come."

We sat round a large fire in the old wainscoted
sitting-room, while Lucy made the tea
and would have made the toast, too; but
Tom said he would sooner burn his eyes out
than suffer her to do so. The housekeeper
came up; and afterwards came an old carver
and his daughter. We sat till after midnight.
The old carver told some anecdotes of people
whom my father knew; and Tom told a
ghost story, which kept them all in breathless
terror, till it turned out, at last, to be a dream.
But I was restless, and spoke little. Once,
indeed, I answered the old carver rather
sharply. He had patted Lucy on the head,
and said he supposed she would be soon
getting married, and leaving us old people.
I could not endure the thought of her leaving
us; though I knew that she would do so,
probably, one day. She had never looked to
me more interesting than she did that
evening. A little child, worn out with playing,
had fallen asleep, with its head upon her lap;
and, as she was speaking to us, her hand was
entangled in its hair. I gazed at her, and