"Only one week," also soliloquised Lucy, as she sat near the old-fashioned window, of the study, and looked out, sadly--"only one week, and Mabel will be gone; and yet nothing I can say can stop this cruel act." She leant her elbow on the window sill, and supported her head with her hand. That face, once so light, and fickle, and coquettish, had acquired, now, that modesty and sobriety of expression, which, some think, once lost, is never again recovered. Her step was more thoughtful, and the light, ringing laugh, once so fickle, and so joyous, but so often heedless and unfeeling, was now seldom or never heard--and in its place, there was a bright look--it could scarcely be called a smile--that seemed to say, she tried to be happy, rather from the fear of giving pain, than, as before, in the buoyancy of an untamed spirit, seeking indulgence for the selfishness of a spoilt, and unchecked fancy. Could it really be Lucy, upon whose lip the unkind word died before the angry flush that preceded its thought had passed from her cheek. Could it be Lucy, who listened with unaffected interest and humility, to the high-toned conversation of her father; or, with girlish playfulness, enticed him to take the walk his health required; and, as he did so, led him where the birds carolled, and the sun shone on green meadows, beside the beautiful Avon--sometimes alone, but often with Mabel--and, when with her, listening, rather than attempting to join in conversation, drawn from the well-stored mind of each. Could this, indeed, be the wild girl whom Mabel had watched with such untiring care, fearing lest the follies of the gay world might again ensnare her, and lead her from peace and hope, back to vanity and heartlessness again. It was, indeed, the same Lucy, though very, very changed, as she sat now by the study window, listening more to the echo of her own thoughts, than to any real sound. The essence of spring will find an inlet to the heart, if possible--and though the view of the shady little court, on which the window opened, was bounded indeed, the air from the pure sky blew fresh upon her forehead, and seemed to speak of the green fields and budding flowers it had left behind. Who has not felt, when the opening year is returning to its activity, and when sober autumn, and hoary winter, have given place to their young sister spring, who hastens to sow her seeds, and send forth the buds which are to furnish summer blossoms and fruits, and the harvest time of plenty and rejoicing--a sensation he scarce can comprehend--urging him to activity. Who is so sluggish as never to have heard an echo in his own bosom, warning him to be up and doing a something, it signifies not what, if good or prudent, in preparation for coming years--to cast off the sloth which has fallen upon him, and, like the budding year, to begin life afresh.