been too long without food, quite in a
motherly way; while he consulted me about
vintages and wines, and taught me many a
Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my
walks I met other strangers from time to
time. Even before my uncle had left me, I
had noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a
young lady of very striking appearance, who
went about always accompanied by an elderly
companion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with
something in her look that prepossessed me in
her favour. The younger lady always put
her veil down when any one approached; so
it had been only once or twice, when I had
come upon her at a sudden turn in the path,
that I had even had a glimpse of her face, I
am not sure if it was beautiful, though in
after life I grew to think it so. But it was
at this time overshadowed by a sadness that
never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of
intense suffering, that irresistibly attracted
me,—not with love, but with a sense of
infinite compassion for one so young yet so
hopelessly unhappy. The companion wore
something of the same look: quiet, melancholy,
hopeless, yet resigned. I asked my landlord
who they were. He said they were called
Clarke; and wished to be considered as
mother and daughter; but that, for his part,
he did not believe that to be their right
name, nor that there was any such relationship
between them. They had been in the
neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time,
lodging in a remote farmhouse. The people
there would tell nothing about them; saying
that they paid handsomely, and never did
any harm; so why should they be speaking of
any strange things that might happen? That,
as the landlord shrewdly observed, showed
there was something out of the common way:
he had heard that the elderly woman was a
cousin of the farmer's where they lodged,
and so the regard existing between relations
might help to keep them quiet.

"What did he think then, was the reason
for their extreme seclusion?" asked I.

"Nay, he could not tell, not he. He had
heard that the young lady, for all as quiet as
she seemed, played strange pranks at times."
He shook his head when I asked him for
more particulars, and refused to give them,
which made me doubt if he knew any, for he
was in general a talkative and communicative
man. In default of other interests,
after my uncle left, I set myself to watch
these two people. I hovered about their
walks, drawn towards them with a strange
fascination, which was not diminished by
their evident annoyance at so frequently
meeting me. One day I had the sudden good
fortune to be at hand when they were
alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in
those unenclosed grazing districts, was a
particularly dangerous occurrence. I have
other and more important things to relate,
than to tell of the accident which gave me
an opportunity of rescuing them; it is enough
to say, that this event was the beginning of
an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by
them, but eagerly prosecuted by me. I can
hardly tell when intense curiosity became
merged in love, but in less than ten days
after my uncle's departure I was passionately
enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant
called her; carefully—for this I noted well—
avoiding any address which appeared as if
there was an equality of station between
them. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the
elderly woman, after her first reluctance to
allow me to pay them any attentions was
overcome, was cheered by my evident
attachment to the young girl; it seemed to
lighten her heavy burden of care, and she
evidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse
where they lodged. It was not so with
Lucy. A more attractive person I never
saw, in spite of her depression of manner,
and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure
at once, that whatever was the source of her
grief, it arose from no fault of her own. It
was difficult to draw her into conversation,
but when at times, for a moment or two, I
beguiled her into talk, I could see a rare
intelligence in her face, and a grave trusting
look in the soft grey eyes that were raised
for a minute to mine. I made every excuse
I possibly could for going there. I sought
wild flowers for Lucy's sake; I planned
walks for Lucy's sake; I watched the heavens
by night, in hopes that some unusual beauty
of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs.
Clarke and Lucy forth upon the moors, to
gaze at the great purple dome above.

It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of
rny love; but that, for some motive which I
could not guess, she would fain have repelled
me; but then again I saw, or fancied I saw
that her heart spoke in my favour, and that
there was a struggle going on in her mind,
which at times (I loved so dearly) I could
have begged her to spare herself, even though
the happiness of my whole life should have
been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew
paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her
delicate frame yet slighter. During this period
I had written, I should say, to my uncle, to
beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at
Harrogate, not giving any reason; but such was
his tenderness towards me, that in a few days
I heard from him, giving me a willing
permission, and only charging me to take care of
myself, and not use too much exertion during
the hot weather.

One sultry evening I drew near the farm.
The windows of their parlour were open, and
I heard voices as I turned the corner of the
house, as I passed the first window (there
were two windows in their little ground-floor
room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I
had knocked at their door—the house-door
stood always ajar—she was gone, and I only
saw Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-
things lying on the table, in a nervous and
purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a