"No, my dear child," replied Mrs. Effingham, "in that you are right. In such cases as these, perhaps, removed from all the ordinary considerations of life, we must cast off ordinary considerations, and for once, think abstractedly of what is just and noble, without considering the world, though that consideration of the world is in almost all instances, a woman's best and surest safeguard. Lucy, I will put no restraint upon you. I will not say do it; for the responsibility is too awful even for me, who do not often shrink from responsibilities. You shall follow the dictates of your own judgment, and of your own heart. Think not of me for one moment, my child. I and poor Lady Tyrrell will console one another, and will, if you so decide, join you as soon as may be." Lucy paused for a moment without reply. A thousand new and strange sensations--a thousand anxious and painful thoughts crowded her bosom, and might be seen written in legible characters upon her countenance. The last thing that appeared there was the rushing up of the bright, warm, eloquent, blood, suffusing forehead, and cheeks, and neck, with a deep and painful blush, while she held out her hand to Charles Tyrrell, and casting the other arm round her mother's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, and once more burst into tears. Mrs. Effingham pressed her to her heart, and looking upon Charles with a melancholy glance, she said, "Oh, Charles, Charles! when, with frank and noble confidence, you first told me of your love for Lucy, I promised that, in the coming time, I would repay that confidence to the full; but I little thought that I should ever have to put such a great--such an awful trust in you! But I can trust you--surely, surely I can trust you with the safety, with the happiness, with the honour of my child!" "Believe me, believe me, Mrs. Effingham!" replied Charles, "as soon as ever we reach the French shore, Lucy shall become mine by a right which none can dispute. Pure, and innocent, and bright as she is, I do not believe that there is mortal man, who would have the impious courage, even in thought, to ruin that purity, or sully that brightness. I know that our marriage can be instantly celebrated in France, though we are now at war with that country, and the very first letter that Lucy writes to you, it shall be as Lucy Tyrrell." Still, however, Lucy clung to Mrs. Effingham, and raising her eyes to her face, she exclaimed, "Oh, my mother, my dear mother! how can I leave you? Charles, Charles, ought I to be so selfish?" "It is I, that am selfish, I fear," said Charles Tyrrell; "for while I own, Lucy, that I would almost bear death itself, rather than part with you, under circumstances of such uncertainty, yet I feel that it is cruel to Mrs. Effingham, to take you from her even now."