While listening to this tirade, which the young lady delivered with great serenity, and concluded with a little yawn, Mrs. Bazalgette had two thoughts. The first was: “This girl is not flesh and blood; she is made of curds and whey, or something else;” the second was: “No, she is a shade hypocriticaler than other girls--before they are married, that is all;” and, acting on this latter conviction, she smiled a lofty incredulity, and fell to counting on her fingers all the moneyed bachelors for miles. At this Lucy winced with sensitive modesty, and for once a shade of vexation showed itself on her lovely features. The quick-sighted, keen-witted matron caught it, and instantly made a masterly move of feigned retreat. “No,” cried she, “I will not tease you anymore, love; just promise me not to receive any gentleman's addresses at Font Abbey, and I will never drive you from my arms to the altar.” “I promise that,” cried Lucy, eagerly. “Upon your honor?” “Upon my honor.” “Kiss me, dear. I know you won't deceive me now you have pledged your honor. This solemn promise consoles me more than you can conceive.” “I am so glad; but if you knew how little it costs me.” “All the better; you will be more likely to keep it,” was the dry reply. The conversation then took a more tender turn. “And so to-morrow you go! How dull the house will be without you! and who is to keep my brats in order now I have no idea. Well, there is nothing but meeting and parting in this world; it does not do to love people, does it? (ah!) Don't cry, love, or I shall give way; my desolate heart already brims over--no--now don't cry” (a little sharply); “the servants will be coming in to take away the things.” “Will you c--c--come and h--help me pack, dear?” “Me, love? oh no! I could not bear the sight of your things put out to go away. I promised to call on Mrs. Hunt this afternoon; and you must not stop in all day yourself--I cannot let your health be sacrificed; you had better take a brisk walk, and pack afterward.” “Thank you, aunt. I will go and finish my drawing of Harrowden Church to take with me.” “No, don't go there; the meadows are wet. Walk upon the Hatton road; it is all gravel.” “Yes; only it is so ugly, and I have nothing to do that way.” “But I'll give you something to do,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, obligingly. “You know where old Sarah and her daughter live--the last cottages on that road; I don't like the shape of the last two collars they made me; you can take them back, if you like, and lend them one of yours I admire so for a pattern.” “That I will, with pleasure.” “Shall you come back through the garden? If you don't--never mind; but, if you do, you may choose me a bouquet. The servants are incapable of a bouquet.” “I will; thank you, dear. How kind and thoughtful of you to give me something to occupy me now that I am a little sad.” Mrs. Bazalgette accepted this tribute with a benignant smile, and the ladies parted.