conversation of some importance was coming
on, in which I should be expected to say what
was my object in paying these frequent
visits. I was glad of the opportunity. My
uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
possibility of my bringing home a young
wife to cheer and adorn the old house in
Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to
succeed him, and had, as I knew, a fair
reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my
side I saw no obstacle. It was true that
Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I
was convinced it was not Clarke), birth,
parentage, and previous life were unknown to
me. But I was sure of her goodness, and
sweet innocence, and although I knew that
there must be something painful to be told,
to account for her mournful sadness, yet I
was willing to bear my share in her grief,
whatever it was.

Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to
her to plunge into the subject:

"We have thought, sir—at least I have
thought—that you know very little of us,
nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant
the intimate acquaintance we have fallen
into. I beg your pardon, sir," she went on,
nervously; "I am but a plain kind of woman,
and I mean to use no rudeness; but I must
say straight out that I—we—think it would
be better for you not to come so often to see
us. She is very unprotected, and——"

"Why should I not come to see you, dear
madam ?" asked I, eagerly, glad of the
opportunity of explaining myself. "I come, I own,
because I have learnt to love Mistress Lucy,
and wish to teach her to love me."

Mistress Clarke shook her head, and
sighed.

"Don't, sir—neither love her, nor, for the
sake of all you hold sacred, teach her to love
you! If I am too late, and you love her
already, forget her,—forget these last few
weeks. O! I should never have allowed you
to come!" she went on, passionately; "but
what am I to do? We are forsaken by all,
except the great God, and even He permits
a strange and evil power to afflict us—what
am I to do ? Where is it to end?" She
wrung her hands in her distress; then she
turned to me: "Go away, sir; go away,
before you learn to care any more for her. I
ask it for your own sake—I implore. You
have been good and kind to us, and we shall
always recollect you with gratitude; but go
away now, and never come back to cross our
fatal path."

"Indeed, madam," said I, "I shall do no
such thing. You urge it for my own sake.
I have no fear, so urged—nor wish, except to
hear more—all. I cannot have seen Mistress
Lucy in all the intimacy of this last fortnight,
without acknowledging her goodness and
innocence; and without seeing—pardon me,
madam—that for some reason you are two
very lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow
and distress. Now, though I am not powerful
myself, yet I have friends who are so wise
and kind, that they may be said to possess
power. Tell me some particulars. Why are
you in grief—what is your secret—why are
you here ? I declare solemnly that nothing
you have said has daunted me in my wish to
become Lucy's husband; nor will I shrink
from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant,
I may have to encounter. You say you are
friendless—why cast away an honest friend?
I will tell you of people to whom you may
write, and who will answer any questions as
to my character and prospects. I do not
shun enquiry."

She shook her head again. "You had
better go away, sir. You know nothing
about us."

"I know your names," said I, "and I have
heard you allude to the part of the country
from which you came, which I happen to
know as a wild and lonely place, and not
many people living there. If I chose to go
there, I could easily ascertain all about you;
but I would rather hear it from you yourself."
You see I wanted to pique her into
telling me something definite.

"You do not know our true names, sir,"
said she, hastily.

"Well, I may have conjectured as much.
But tell me, then, I conjure you. Give me
your reasons for distrusting my willingness
to stand by what I have said with regard to
Mistress Lucy."

"Oh, what can I do?" exclaimed she.
"If I am turning away a true friend, as he
says ?—Stay!" coming to a sudden decision—
"I will tell you something—I cannot tell
you all—you would not believe it. But perhaps
I can tell you enough to prevent your
going on in your hopeless attachment. I am
not Lucy's mother."

"So I conjectured," I said. "Go on."

"I do not even know if she is the legitimate
or illegitimate child of her father. But
he is cruelly turned against her; and her
mother is long dead; and, for a terrible
reason, she has no other creature to keep
constant to her but me. She—only two
years ago—such a darling and such a pride
in her father's house ? Why, sir, there is a
mystery that might happen in connection
with her any moment; and then you would
go away like all the rest; and when you
next heard her name you would loathe her.
Others, who have loved her longer, have
done so before now. My poor child, whom
neither God nor man has mercy upon—or,
surely, she would die!"

The good woman was stopped by her
crying. I confess I was a little stunned by
her last words; but only for a moment. At
any rate, till I knew definitely what was
this mysterious stain upon one so simple,
and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert
her, and so I said; and she made answer:

"If you are daring in your heart to think
harm of my child, sir, after knowing her as