“How I wish he were come! How impatient I am to know what success he has had with my father! My own mind is made up. The question is, Shall I be able to persuade others to regard the future as I do? Will Lucy's friends let her accept a beggar? No, not that! He who is able and willing to work need not be a beggar. Was that a tap at the door? Come in.” As he spoke, the door slowly opened, and a lady entered; her veil, closely drawn and folded, completely concealed her face, and a large shawl wrapped her figure from shoulders to feet. As she stood for an instant silent, Trafford arose and said, “I suppose you wished to see Sir Brook Fossbrooke; but he is from home, and will not return till a late hour.” “Don't you remember me, Lionel?” said she, drawing back her veil, while she leaned against the wall for support. “Good heavens! Mrs. Sewell!” and he sprang forward and led her to a seat. “I never thought to see you here,” said he, merely uttering words at random in his astonishment. “When did you come?” asked she, faintly. “About an hour ago.” “True? Is this true?” “On my honor. Why do you ask? Why should you doubt it?” “Simply to know how long you could have been here without coming to me.” These words were uttered in a voice slightly tremulous, and full of a tender significance. Trafford's cheeks grew scarlet, and for a moment he seemed unable to reply. At last he said, in a confused way: “I came by the mail-packet, and at once drove out here. I was anxious to see Sir Brook. And you?” “I came here also to see him.” “He has been in some trouble lately,” said Trafford, trying to lead the conversation into an indifferent channel. “By some absurd mistake they arrested him as a Celt.” “How long do you remain here, Lionel?” asked she, totally unmindful of his speech. “My leave is for a month, but the journey takes off half of it.” “Am I much changed, Lionel, since you saw me last? You can scarcely know. Come over and sit beside me.” Trafford drew his chair close to hers. “Well,” said she, pushing back her bonnet, and by the action letting her rich and glossy hair fall in great masses over her back, “you have not answered me? How am I looking?” “You were always beautiful, and fully as much so now as ever.” “But I am thinner, Lionel. See my poor hands, how they are wasted. These are not the plump fingers you used to hold for hours in your own,--all that dreary time you were so ill;” and as she spoke, she laid her hand, as if unconsciously, over his. “You were so good to me,” muttered he,--“so good and so kind.” “And you have wellnigh forgotten it all,” said she, sighing heavily. “Forgotten it! far from it. I never think of you but with gratitude.” She drew her hand hastily away, and averted her head at the same time with a quick movement.