"I have heard Mr. Merton say that no one could choose for another his aims in life, but were I choosing for myself, it should be something that would connect me with the minds of others--something by which I could do service to their spiritual beings. Were I a man, I should like to write books--such books as would give counsel and comfort to erring and sad hearts--" Edward Houstoun shook his head--"Even had I an author's gifts, Lucy, that would not do for me--I must have action in my life--" "What say you to the pulpit?" "The noblest of all employments, Lucy--but it is a heavenly employment and needs a heavenly spirit. I would not dare to think of that. Try again--" "The law? Ah! now I see I have chosen rightly--you will be a lawyer--a great lawyer, like Mr. Patrick Henry." "You have spoken, Lucy--and I will do my best to fulfil your prophecy. I may not be a Patrick Henry--two such men belong not to one age--but I may at least hew out for myself a place among men, where I may stand with a man's freedom of thought and action. The very decision has emancipated me--has emboldened me to speak what a moment since I scarcely dared to think--nay, turn not from me, beloved--oh how passionately beloved! Life has now its object for me, Lucy--your love--for that I will strive--hope--whisper me that I need not fear--that when I have a right to claim my bride--" When Edward Houstoun commenced this passionate apostrophe, he had clasped Lucy's hand, and, overcome by his emotions and her own--forgetting all but his love--conscious only of a bewildering joy--she had suffered it to rest for one instant in his clasp. It was but for one instant--the next, struggling from him as he strove to retain her, she started to her feet, and stood leaning against the trunk of the tree that overshadowed them, with her face hidden by her clasped hands. He rose and drew near, saying, in low, tremulous tones--"Lucy, what means this?" "Mr. Houstoun," she exclaimed, removing her hands from her face, and wringing them in passionate sorrow--"how could you speak those words?" "Wherefore should I not speak them--are they so terrifying to you, Lucy?" "Can they be otherwise, since they must separate us for ever? Think you that the Lady Houstoun would endure that the creature of her bounty should become the wife of her son?" "I asked, Lucy, that you would promise to be mine when I had won a right to act independently of the Lady Houstoun's opinions." "Has a son ever a right to act independently of a mother?" "Is the obedience of a child to be exacted from a man? Is his happiness ever to be at the mercy of another's prejudices? Does there never come a period when he may be permitted to judge for himself?" Edward Houstoun spoke with indignant emphasis. "Look not so sternly--speak not so angrily," exclaimed Lucy. "I cannot answer your questions--but my obligations, at least, are irreversible--they belong to the irrevocable past, and while I retain their memory I can never--"