It wanted about a quarter to eleven o'clock at night, and Lucy Effingham sat alone, in the drawing-room of the old manor house, leaning her fair face upon her hand, and bending her head over a book which, however, she did not read. There were all the old accustomed objects about her, the things with which she had herself taken a delight to decorate the abode of her mother, and the ornaments which had been collected there before they arrived, to make the house look pleasant to their eyes, by him who had now gone down to a cold and bloody grave. She had thought the place when she first saw it a little paradise; every object in that drawing-room, she had noted and approved; the large China jars, the few fine and deep-toned paintings, the exquisite bronzes scattered here and there, the tables of marqueterie and mosaic, and all those thousand little ornaments which, either for their rarity, or their beauty, convey, through the eye, pleasant impressions to the mind, even while busied more intently with other things. Now, however, when she looked around her, and thought of the past and the present, the feeling excited by the view of things connected with happiness gone by, was nothing but that sickening sensation, mingled of regret and despair, which takes possession of the mind of youth, when first dark disappointment falls upon it. Hers was not, indeed, a spirit to yield, and give itself up to sorrow without a struggle. She had much firmness and determination of character, mingled with gentleness of heart and sweetness of disposition, and she had struggled long, powerfully, and successfully to keep down, as far as possible, every expression of her grief, so as not to lay a deeper load upon the mind of her mother, already depressed with anxieties, and cares, and sorrows, not a few. "I am young," thought Lucy, "and can bear my share; but into her cup so many woes have lately been poured, that it is near the overflowing." Thus, when her mother was present, Lucy had power, for her sake, to stop almost every expression of her grief. But when she was alone as now, when Mrs. Effingham had gone up to the park, to spend the evening in consoling Lady Tyrrell, the motive, the great motive for self-command was gone, and she sat with her head bent down over the book, and her eyes fixed upon it: but those eyes sightless of any word that it contained, and from time to time, pouring forth tears, which fell upon the page, and left it as if it had been lying open under a spring-shower.