“For myself,” returned Horton, “it would not be of much consequence to have to begin the world again, even with very limited means. I am young and healthy, and have had an education which has put many resources in my power. But my poor mother! It would go hard, indeed, at her age, and with her delicate health, to be turned away from the scene of all her early pleasures, and which is endeared to her by a thousand tender associations.” “It must not be,” said the invalid; “and I will see after the business as soon as I have taken a little rest; but at present I feel rather exhausted.” Horton then took leave, and Lucy, after assisting her father to lie down, resumed her accustomed seat, and began to sew, her active mind keeping pace with her no less active fingers. With painful anxiety she dwelt on the state of her only surviving parent, and on the loneliness and destitution in which she would be left were he to be taken from her. It was true she had a brother older than herself, but she remembered with a sigh, how little either he or his wife were calculated to fill up the vacuum. The rest of the children were all younger than herself, and were consequently of an age rather to require protection than to render it. A sister of her father’s had promised to remain with the younger branches of the family, but though a well-meaning woman, she was but a poor substitute for the parent that was about to be taken from her. Then her thoughts would turn to Norman Horton’s embarrassments, and to the distress of his poor mother—and the tears of sympathy often filled her soft beautiful eyes, though they were as often dashed away, lest they should be observed by her father. Indeed, the gentle, self-denying girl, had learnt to deprive herself, almost wholly, of the luxury of tears, from an anxiety to keep her parent’s mind composed and tranquil. But nature would sometimes have its course, and on this day it was unusually imperative. “It would be strange if I did not feel for Mrs. Horton,” she argued with herself, as if anxious to find an excuse for the tears which in spite of her utmost efforts would course each other down her cheeks. “It would be most ungrateful of me did I not do so, for ever since mother’s death she has behaved to me with even maternal tenderness. It is true I have not seen much of her of late, but that is certainly not owing to any fault of hers.” The truth is that since the visit of Miss Shirley to Mrs. Horton, Norman and Lucy had met much less frequently than formerly. That young lady had hinted to Lucy the probability of an engagement taking place between herself and Norman, and as he had since that time been a much less frequent visiter at Mr. Woodford’s, Lucy concluded that the engagement had actually taken place. It was a subject which she had never ventured either to inquire into, or even to examine her own bosom upon, for though in the habit of scrutinizing her thoughts