truth, I felt that I might go on thus for years
to little purpose. So, by degrees, I returned
to my former sadness, and became again
reserved and thoughtful.

One night, I descended from my little
room into the garden, and walked about with
my hat in my hand, for I felt feverish and
excited. Night after night, my sleep had
been broken and disturbed by dreams, that
glided from my memory when I woke, but
left a feeling of despondency that followed me
throughout the day. Sometimes, I thought,
myself, that my reason was deserting me.
We were very busy at that time, and Tom
Lawton and I were to have worked together
all the evening, but I had left him; utterly
unable to fix my attention upon what I set
before me. I paced to and fro several times,
when passing by the window where I had
left him at work, I heard him speaking with
some one. A word, which I fancied having
caught, made me curious, and I mounted
upon a stone ledge and listened; for the
sliding pane of glass which served to ventilate
the Hall had been pushed back, and I could
hear distinctly when I applied my ear to the
aperture. The light being inside, I could
not be seen, although I could see his desk.
The lamp was shaded, and the window was of
stained glass, so that I did not see very
clearly. But I had a quick vision for such a
scene as that before me.

That form standing beside Tom Lawton,
with its hand in his, was Lucy's! The blood
rushed to my head. A thousand little lights
were dancing before my eyes. I felt myself
falling, but I made an effort, and clutched
the window-sill, and listened. It was Lucy's
voice that I heard first.

"Hush! " she said, "I heard a noise; there
is some one coming. Good night! Good
night!"

"No, no," said Tom, "it is the wind beating
the dead leaves against the window."

They seemed to listen for a moment, and
then he spoke again,

"Oh, Miss Lucy, do not run away before
we have talked together a little. I see you
now so seldom, and when I do there are
others present, and I cannot speak to you of
what is always uppermost in my thoughts.
I think of you all day, and at night I long for
the next morning, to be in the same house
with you, in the hope of seeing you before I
go; though I am continually disappointed.
I think I am unfortunate in all but one
thing, though that consoles me for the rest—
I think you love me a little, Lucy."

"Yes, Tom, I do; a great deal. I have
told you so many times, and I am not ashamed
to repeat it. I would not hide it from any
one, if you did not tell me to do so. But why
do you tease yourself with fancies, and think
yourself unfortunate? I do not know why
we should not tell him all about it. He is
the kindest being in the world, and I know
he would not thwart me in anything that
could procure my happiness; and then, again,
you are a favourite of his, and I am sure he
would be delighted to think that we loved
each other."

"No, no, Lucy; you must not say a word
about it. What would he think of me, with
nothing in the world but my small salary,
encouraging such thoughts towards you, who
are rich; and going on like this—laying
snares, as he would say, for months, to gain
your affections, and never saying a word
about it; bringing, too, disgrace upon him, as
your guardian, that he had suffered a poor
clerk in his office to find opportunities of
speaking to you alone, and at last persuading
you to promise to become his wife one day?"

"All this you have told me many a time;
but indeed this need not be an obstacle. I
wish that I had not sixpence in the world.
My money is become a misfortune to us,
instead of a blessing, as it should be. I wish I
might give it away, or renounce it altogether.
I am sure we should be as well without it,
one day; and if we had to wait a long time,
we should still be able to see one another
openly, and not have to watch for secret
opportunities, as if we were doing wrong. You
do not know, Tom, how unhappy the thought
of all this makes me. I never had a secret
before, that I feared to tell before the whole
world; and now I sit, night after night, with
him from whom I should conceal nothing, and
feel that I am deceiving him. Every time he
looks at me, I fancy that he knows all about it,
and thinks me an artful girl, and waits to see
how long I shall play my part before him.
Many times I have beeai tempted to tell him
all, in spite of your injunction, and beg him
not to be angry with me because I had not
dared to tell him before. I would have taken
all blame upon myself, and said that I had
loved you secretly before you had ever spoken
to me about it—anything I would have said,
rather than feel myself deceitful, as I do!"

"Lucy!" exclaimed Tom, in a broken voice,
"you must not you must not, indeed, ever
give way to such an impulse. I know not
what might come of it, if he knew. It would
ruin us perhaps, be the cause of our being
separated for ever make him hate us both,
and never pardon me, at least, while he lives.
Oh, Lucy! I have not told you all. Something
yet more serious remains behind."

"Tell me—what is this, Tom?—you alarm
me!"

"Come here then, and bring your ear closer.
No; I will not tell you. Do not ask me
again. It is, perhaps, only a fancy, which has
come into my head because I am anxious
about you, and imagine all kinds of misfortunes
that might arise to make us wretched.
But, oh! if I am right, we are, indeed,
unfortunate. No misfortune that could befal us
could be equal to this."

Lucy's eyes were filled with tears. "I do
not like to go back into the parlour," she
said, "lest he should be there, and ask me