I did not know how to answer her; I leaned upon the old mossy wall by Lucy’s side, eager to speak of herself--of Charlie, and yet afraid. “Is there anything that I can do!” I said. “You can trust me, Lucy; is there anything that I can do?” “No, no, Adam! I do not mean that; no one must interfere with my father or his purposes, you know; but I only desired to tell you that you might understand as much as I do of why we went, if we do go away, and--I only wished to tell you, Adam.” Lucy turned her head away; one or two tears, so large that one could see by what bitter force they had been restrained, fell softly on the moss of the wall, but she thought I did not see them. “Lucy, Lucy, this must not be!” said I; “tell me what I can do; I will venture anything rather than that this should come upon us! If Hew were only here--if you would but plead for me, Lucy, that your father may remember that what I have is yours--yours with my whole heart.” I saw her shake and tremble in the strong effort to restrain herself, but it would not do. She pressed her hand across her eyes, and again the tears fell singly upon the moss--a few large bitter tears, as if they had been gathered long--an essence of intense pain too powerful to spend itself in much weeping--deliberate drops wrung from her very heart. “I thank you, Adam,” she said at last, “and yet I do not need to say, I thank you--you know that--but this cannot be; you must do nothing; none of us can do anything except submit. It was only a selfish desire to pain you, I am afraid, which made me tell you this; for it will indeed be very hard to leave Murrayshaugh!” I could say nothing in return. Alas! there are harder trials than even bidding farewell to one’s home. All was not well in this beautiful world; there were other things among us than those I had dreamed of, and my heart sickened as I tried to reassure myself. By and by, Lucy turned along a quiet sheltered way, close by the water-side, and I went with her--perhaps I should have left her there, but I followed in spite of myself. We began to speak of Hew. “Do you think we shall ever meet all together again, Adam?” said Lucy. “Surely--I hope so,” said I, hastily. “We are all young, Lucy; we may be changed externally perhaps, but that will be all.” “If we are ever together again, we shall be changed in every way, Adam.” “Nay, nay, Lucy,” said I, “I cannot let you take up that gloomy notion. Why should we change? We know each other far too well to alter our old likings. We will be the same, Lucy, when we are grey-headed.” “Will _you_, Adam?--will all of us?--or are we indeed what we think we are?--are we not clothing ourselves and others with some ideal of our own, which hides the natural spirit from us?” “Lucy!”