"My mother wished me to watch that you did not go down without seeing her to-day," said Lucy apologetically; for Mrs Hardon was far from well that week, and, since the long discussion that morning between old Matt and Septimus, she had been bemoaning her lot in a weak spiritless way, till, finding all his attempts at consolation of none effect, Septimus had taken his hat and gone out for a walk with his boy. To-day Mrs Septimus would be tolerably well; to-morrow, in a weak fit, exacting sympathy from husband and child in a way that would have wearied less loving natures. Now she would refuse food, upon the plea that it could not be afforded for her; consolation, because she was a wretched, miserable burden; and medicine, because she was sure that it would do her no good. "Be patient with her, my darling," Septimus would say to Lucy--a needless request. "Think of the troubles she has gone through, and then look at me." "What for?" Lucy would cry, laughingly prisoning him by seizing his scrubby bits of whisker in her little fingers, and then kissing him on either cheek,--"what for? To see the dearest father that ever lived?" And then memories of the past would float through Septimus Hardon's brain as he smoothed down the soft braided hair about the girl's white forehead. But there were tearful eyes above the smiling lips, and Septimus Hardon's voice used to tremble a little as he said, "God bless you, my darling!" "Our beauty, some of us," seemed vibrating in the curate's ears as Lucy spoke; but the bright look of welcome, the maidenly reserve, and sweet air of innocence emanating from the fair girl before him, seemed to waft away the words, and, returning to the present, he followed her to where Mrs Hardon was lying down. Drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, to listen patiently to the querulous complaints he had so often heard before--murmurings which often brought a hot flush to Lucy's cheek as she listened, until reassured by the quiet smile of the curate--a look which told her how well he read her mother's heart, and pitied her for the long sufferings she had endured,--sickness and sorrow,--which had somewhat warped a fond and loving disposition. Perhaps it was unmaidenly, perhaps wrong in the giver and taker, but, seated at her sewing-machine in the next room, Lucy would watch through the open door for these looks, and treasure them up, never pausing to think that they might be the pioneers of a deeper understanding. She looked forward to his visits, and yet dreaded them, trembling when she heard his foot upon the stairs; and more than once she had timed her journeys to the warehouse so that they might take her away when he was likely to call; while often and often afterwards, long tearful hours of misery would be spent as she thought of the gap between them, and bent hopelessly over her sewing-machine.