Doctor Thomas Hardon, of Somesham, seemed likely to have full enjoyment of his brother's property, for Time kept on busy at work over his harvest. Septimus Hardon slowly and laboriously did copying for the law-stationers, apparently quite content with his lot, for he scarcely ever gave a thought now to the quest he had commenced with old Matt; Lucy toiled on incessantly at her sewing-machine, the bright needle flashing up and down, and the treadles set in motion by her feet were hardly ever still. Journeys were made to and from the warehouse from whence she had her work, but mostly alone, for Lucy had lost her protector: he had not returned since the day upon which he had been taken ill, and they knew not where he lodged. The information might have been obtained from Agnes, but save a short note or two enclosed in the regular letters sent to Mrs Jarker, in which she implored her to watch over the child, Lucy had not heard from her. Mr Sterne came and went, visiting them as he would have visited at any other house, treating Lucy with a calm, cold deference that made her weep bitterly after each visit, and grow paler day by day; for the curate told himself that he had at last conquered a foolish fancy, that he had triumphed as became him, and that all he felt now was a sublime pity which prompted him to watch her when she went out alone, and follow her at a distance till he saw her once more in safety, when he would hurry home; for his heart was very full of pity for Lucy Grey, even though he knew not of the tears she shed in secret. As to carrying on his researches alone, the very thought of such a proceeding never occurred to Septimus Hardon--it seemed to border too much upon the impossible; and besides, he was deep in that Slough of Despond--poverty, which, instead of prompting men to energetic action, too often enervates and breeds despair. So he waited on day after day, hoping to see old Matt again, and yet dreading the prosecution of his claim-shrinking when it was named, for he seemed to grow less hopeful as time wore on. The curate had hinted more than once how willing he would be to aid him; but Septimus always shrank so from entering upon the matter, that Mr Sterne, from motives of delicacy, soon ceased to broach the subject. The sewing-machine clicked on early and late, and Jean's lark, when he heard it, would set up his crest and whistle away, waking the echoes of the court, while at the open window, when the bird was silent, Jean Marais himself would crane forward and listen eagerly to the fragment of some mournful little air which he could just catch at times, as the machine stopped, and Lucy arranged a portion of her work. But the sweet notes from the first-floor seemed to rouse the lark to fresh exertions, when its master would angrily chide it, and perhaps cover it with a handkerchief, but only to snatch it away hurriedly.