"I will be ill," groaned I. "Heaven knows that I shall feel ill enough, and that shall be my excuse." "And do you think Marmaduke would marry, knowing that his best friend lies ill and alone here? He would never do that. They would feel, I hope, too, that if it were so, I should not have left you. No, Peter; you have been very strong hitherto--be strong unto the end. Let her never know that you have suffered and are suffering now for her sweet sake." "I will do what you think is best, dear old friend," said I; "but please to leave me by myself a little just now." And he did so; and I battled with my own heart and subdued it, and when Marmaduke and Lucy were married I was present. "My dear Peter, your hand is as cold as a stone!" exclaimed the bridegroom, when he wished me "Good-bye" that day. But Lucy said nothing, save "Good-bye, Peter;" and even to that I could not reply. They were very happy, those two, as indeed they deserved to be. Whatever was wanting at that time in him, her good sense supplied; while in her, neither then nor afterwards, was there anything wanting. She had sympathized as much as lay in her power in the tastes and opinions of her father; she had had a bringing-up which, in these days, would have at least resulted in what is called a strong-minded woman, rather as opposed to a gentle one. This could scarcely, indeed, have been the case with Lucy, but her marriage with Marmaduke made it impossible. Her mind had heretofore been, as it were, all orchard, bringing forth fine and vigorous fruit; a portion of it now became a garden, producing flowers dainty and rare. Her teacher being also her lover, it was no wonder that her progress was rapid; and it is probable that the young student had never found his studies so sweet as when communicating them to such a pupil. From her father, she had learned philosophy; from her husband, how to appreciate all that was beautiful in Nature and touching in Song. As for her politics, Marmaduke was infinitely more solicitous to imbue her with correct views respecting the poets, which, perhaps, was fortunate enough. She would never have admitted, even to please him, that her beloved, father was wrong, or even extreme in his views of government; and, in truth, those opinions of hers--so enthusiastic, so trustful, and founded upon the mistake of believing all her fellow-creatures as guileless as herself--gave her conversation, an added charm. To hear her talk of wrongs and rights, with heightened colour and earnest eyes--no matter how elevated the rank of the person addressed, nor how nearly connected with the very executive of whose acts she was complaining--was enough to make a bishop exchange his mitre for a white hat, and adopt the Thirty-nine Articles recommended by Mr. Hone.