I am so weary with the burden old Of foregone faults, and power of custom base, That much I fear to perish from the ways, And fall into my enemy's grim hold. A mighty friend, to free me, though self-sold Came, of his own ineffable high grace, Then went, and from my vision took his face. Him now in vain I weary to behold. But still his voice comes echoing below: O ye that labor! see, here is the gate! Come unto me--the way all open lies! What heavenly grace will--what love--or what fate-- The glad wings of a dove on me bestow, That I may rest, and from the earth arise?[1] [Footnote 1: Petrarch's sixtieth Sonnet.] Her sweet tones, the earnest music, and the few phrases he could catch here and there, all had their influence upon Tom. They made him feel. And with that, as usual, he was content. Lucy herself had felt as she had never felt before, and, therefore, sung as she had never sung before. And Tom was astonished to find that her voice had such power over him, and began to wonder how it was that he had not found it out before. He went home more solemn and thoughtful than he had ever been. Still he did nothing. CHAPTER XXII. A COMING EVENT. Thus things went on for the space of about three weeks. Tom went to see Lucy almost every night, and sometimes stayed late; for his mother was still from home, and his father was careless about his hours so long as they were decent. Lucy's face continued grave, but lost a little of its trouble; for Tom often asked her to sing to him now, and she thought she was gaining more of the influence over him which she so honestly wished to possess. As the month drew toward a close, however, the look of anxiety began to deepen upon her countenance. One evening, still and sultry, they were together as usual. Lucy was sitting at the piano, where she had just been singing, and Tom stood beside her. The evening, as the Italian poets would say, had grown brown, and Mrs. Boxall was just going to light the candles, when Tom interposed a request for continued twilight. "Please, grannie," he said--for he too called her grannie--"do not light the candles yet. It is so sweet and dusky--just like Lucy here." "All very well for you," said Mrs. Boxall; "but what is to become of me? My love-making was over long ago, and I want to see what I'm about now. Ah! young people, your time will come next. Make hay while the sun shines." "While the candle's out, you mean, grannie," said Tom, stealing a kiss from Lucy. "I hear more than you think for," said the cheery old woman. "I'll give you just five minutes' grace, and then I mean to have my own way. I am not so fond of darkness, I can tell you." "How close it is!" said Lucy. "Will you open the window a little wider, Tom. Mind the flowers." She came near the window, which looked down on the little stony desert of Guild Court, and sank into a high-backed chair that stood beside it.