caught up every word she spoke; and when
she stopped, my restlessness returned. I
strove in vain to take part in their mirth.
I wanted to be alone.

When I sat that night in my little bedroom,
I was thinking still of Lucy. I heard her
voice still sounding in my ear; and, when
I shut my eyes, I pictured her still before me,
with her dear kind face, and her little golden
locket hung upon her neck. I fell asleep, and
dreamed of her. I woke, and waited for the
daylight, thinking of her still. So we passed
all the Christmas holidays. Sometimes it was
a happy feeling which possessed me; and
sometimes I almost wished that I had never
seen her. I was always restless and anxious;
I knew not for what. I became a different
man to that which I had been before I knew
her.

When, at last, I concealed from myself no
longer that I loved her fondly, deeply—
deeper, I believe, than ever man has loved—
I became alarmed. I knew what people
would say, if it came to be known. She had
some property, and I had nothing; but what
was worse, I was forty-five years of age, and
she was only twenty. I was, moreover, her
guardian; and she had been consigned to my
care by her dying father, in confidence, that
if she came under my protection, I would act
towards her as he himself would have acted,
if he had lived, not dreaming that I should
encourage other thoughts than those of a
protector and a friend. I knew that I should
have been jealous, angry, with anyone who
evinced a liking for her; and yet I asked
myself whether it was right that I should
discourage any man who might make her
happy; who, perhaps, would love her nearly
as much as I did, and be more suited for her,
by reason of his youth and habits; not like
mine, sedate and monkish. Even if I eventually
gained her affections, would not the
world say that I had exerted the undue
influence of rny authority over her; or that
I had kept her shut up from society; so that,
in her ignorance of life, she mistook a feeling
of respect for a stronger sentiment? And,
again, if all these things were set aside, was
it not wrong that I should take a young and
beautiful girl and shut her up in that old
place for ever—checking the natural gaiety
of youth, and bringing her by slow degrees
to my old ways?  I saw the selfishness of all
my thoughts, and resolved to strive to banish
them for ever.

But they would not leave me. Each day
I saw something in her that increased my
passion. I watched her as she went from
room to room. I walked stealthily about the
place, in the hope of seeing her somewhere,
unobserved, and hearing her speak, and
stealing away again before she saw me. I
walked on tiptoe once, and saw her through
the open door, thoughtful—looking at the
candle with her work untouched beside her.
I fancied to myself what thoughts possessed
her: perhaps the memory of a friend, no
longer of this world, had touched her
suddenly, and made her mute and still; or,
perhaps, the thought of some one dearer.
The idea ran through me like a subtle
poison, and I shuddered. I thought she
started. I believe it was a fancy; but I stole
away again hurriedly, on tiptoe, and never
looked behind me till I reached my corner in
the Hall.

Every one remarked a change in me. Lucy
looked at me anxiously sometimes, and asked
me if I was not ill. Tom Lawton grieved to
see me so dejected, till he became himself as
grave as an old man. I sat opposite to Lucy
sometimes, with a book in my hand. I had
ceased to read aloud; and she seeing that
I took no pleasure in it, did not press me to
do so. I looked at the pages, without a
thought of their contents, simply to avoid
her looks. I thought, at last, that she grew
vexed with my neglect. One night I suddenly
threw down my book, and looking at her
boldly and intently, to observe the expression
of her features, I said—

"I have been thinking, Lucy, that you
grow weary of my dull ways. You do not
love me now, as you did some months ago."

"Oh, yes!" she replied, "indeed I do. I
do not know what makes you talk like this,
unless I have offended you in something.
But I see it now," she said. "I must have
said something that has given you pain;
though it was never in my thought to do so.
And this is why you treat me coldly, day by
day, and never let me know what I have done."

She came over to me, and took my hand in
hers; and, with tears in her eyes, begged me
to tell her what it was.

"I know," she said, "I have no friend
more kind and good than you. My father
died before I knew how great a friend I had
in him; but had he lived, I never could have
loved him more than I love you."

"Well, well, Lucy," said I, "I did not mean
to hurt you. I know not why I reproached
you. I am not well; and when I feel thus, I
know not what I say."

"Kiss me, then," said she, "and tell me you
are not angry with me; and do not think,
now, that I am tired of living here with you.
I will do everything to make you happy. I
will not ask you to read. I will put away my
work, and read to you in future. I have seen
you silent, looking unhappy, and have said
nothing thinking that was best, as I did not
know what it was that made you so; and you
have thought, perhaps, that I was vexed with you,
and wished to show it by a sullen air.
But now I will strive to make you cheerful.
I will read and sing to you, and we will play
at draughts, sometimes, as we used to do.
Indeed, I like this old place, and all that live
in it, and never was so happy in my life as I
have been since I came here."

I placed my hand upon her head, and kissed
her on the forehead, saying nothing.