Mr. Hardie would not let her hire a carriage; he would drive her over in half the time. He beckoned his servant, who was standing at the inn door, and ordered it immediately. “Meantime, Miss Fountain, if you will take my arm, I will show you something that I think will amuse you, though _we_ have found it anything but amusing, as you may well suppose.” Lucy took his arm somewhat timidly, and he walked her to the marble-cutter's shop. “Look there,” said he. Lucy looked and there was an unfinished slab on which she read these words: Sacred to the Memory OF LUCY FONTAINE, WHO WAS DROWNED AT SEA ON THE 10TH SEPT., 18--. As her beauty endeared her to all eyes, So her modesty, piety, docilit At this point in her moral virtues the chisel had stopped. Eleven o'clock struck, and the chisel went for its beer; for your English workman would leave the d in “God” half finished when strikes the hour of beer. The fact is that the shopkeeper had newly set up, was proud of the commission, and, whenever the chisel left off, he whipped into the workshop and brought the slab out, _pro tem.,_ into his window for an advertisement. Hardie pointed it out to Lucy with a chuckle. Lucy turned pale, and put her hand to her heart. Hardie saw his mistake too late, and muttered excuses. Lucy gave a little gasp and stopped him. “Pray say no more; it is my fault; if people will feign death, they must expect these little tributes. My uncle has lost no time.” And two unreasonable tears swelled to her eyes and trickled one after another down her cheeks; then she turned her back quickly on the thing, and Mr. Hardie felt her arm tremble. “I think, Mr. Hardie,” said she presently, with marked courtesy, “I should, under the circumstances, prefer to go home alone. My aunt's nerves are sensitive, and I must think of the best way of breaking to her the news that I am alive.” “It would be best, Miss Fountain; and, to tell the truth, I feel myself unworthy to accompany you after being so maladroit as to give you pain in thinking to amuse you.” “Oh, Mr. Hardie,” said Lucy, growing more and more courteous, “you are not to be called to account for my weakness; that _would_ be unjust. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner?” “Certainly, since you permit me.” He put Lucy into the carriage and off she drove. “Come,” thought Mr. Hardie, “I have had an escape; what a stupid blunder for me to make! She is not angry, though, so it does not matter. She asked me to dinner.” Said Lucy to herself: “The man is a fool! Poor Mr. Dodd! _he_ would not have shown me my tombstone--to amuse me.” And she dismissed the subject from her mind.