“Lucy, I suppose you are old enough to choose for yourself--is he the keeper of your conscience?” cried Arthur. Lucy looked at her guardian, with a faint, deprecatory smile quivering on her lip. “I must,” she said; “I must! How can I help it?” She seemed to ask his permission; and what was he that he should give or withhold permission? He stood aside, and with reluctant hands opened the pew-door. Just then Nancy, tired of waiting, and drawn by potent curiosity, came forward alone. She had thrown back her bridal veil. It was natural that there should be a certain defiant expression on her face. She strolled towards them with an appearance of carelessness, a cavalier air. Nancy’s heart was beating loudly enough. She was afraid of the ladies whom she might be about to face, but that only made her put on a bolder and more saucy aspect. She was half-wounded that he should have left her for a moment, half-anxious for the result, and really eager and wistful, wishing to please if she could, had anyone been able to see into her heart. But an image of more complete defiance and saucy freedom than this girl, with her veil put up in a crumpled mass, approaching with a bold swing of her person and a loud-sounding step, could not have been found. All her virginal grace, her tender bridehood and womanhood, seemed to have suddenly flown. Lucy looked up at her and quailed; her lip quivered more and more; she looked at Durant with an appeal, she looked at Arthur with a pitiful glance. Finally, she stepped forward, and said, softly, “I must not stay. I wish you may be very, very happy, you and my brother. Oh, Arthur, you know I wish you happy!” Then she made a pause, for Nancy gave no response. “I am sorry,” she went on, faltering, “that it has all been so unhappy--that we have not known you--that Arthur has been so unkind; but it is not our fault.” “Oh, it does not matter,” said Nancy. She was touched by the look of the girl who stood before her, but to give in was impossible. “It doesn’t matter a bit. I don’t suppose we should have got on, had we known each other. It is better it should be as it is.” And with this she turned and walked slowly back towards the vestry, turning her back upon them. Lucy stood still for a moment in dismay. Then she said, breathless, “Good-bye, Arthur, good-bye! Davies will give you a letter, but don’t open it now. Good-bye, and God bless you. Take me away, Mr. Durant, take me away! Come, come,” she said, hastening him as they got to the door. “I shall be crying again if we don’t go, I am so silly. I don’t care for the rain, only come, come away!” Then they were out of doors again, in the wet street, at a distance even from old Davies, who came hobbling after them, the rain blowing in their faces, everything over. Lucy clung to his arm and hurried him on, choking the sobs that would come into her throat.