"First, however, you shall see the good girl herself, Mr. Dartmouth, and then we can have a postscript--or should I say a codicil?--on her account. John, please say to Lucy, I wish her to come to me. After all the stocks and bonds in the world, Mr. Dartmouth, our lives are what our servants please to make them." "True, indeed, my love; but the comfort is, if we are well stocked with bonds of the right sort, servants that don't suit can be changed for those that do." "And the more changes, the worse, commonly;--an exception is so rare, I dread nothing like change. The chance of improving a bad one is even better, I think." "I don't believe there is anything good in the flunkey line that money won't buy. I have always found I could have anything I wanted, if I saw fit to pay its price. Money, no matter what simpletons preach, money, my dear, is"---- "Why, Lucy, what is the matter?" exclaimed Miss Millicent, with some surprise and anxiety, as she saw the girl, who had just entered, instead of advancing, awkwardly shrink on one side into a chair behind the door, with a shudder, as if she had trod on a reptile. The next moment she was at her side, earnestly whispering something in her ear, evidently an explanation of the circumstances of the case, to which Lucy had hitherto been an entire stranger. "Pray, excuse me, Ma'am," was the girl's scarce audible response to some request. "It is only to write your name, Lucy." "Not to _such_ a paper, for the world!" "Not to oblige me?" "I would do anything, Ma'am, to oblige you, but that would not. Never! never!" said the excited girl, catching another glimpse of Chip, who was now looking obliquely at the whispering couple, and drumming with his fingers on the rosewood of that part of the letter S from which his intended had just risen, as if he were hurriedly beating a _reveille_ to rally his faltering impudence. "No, Ma'am;--it is too bad, it is too bad, it is too"----Here her utterance became choked, her cheeks pallid as death, and her form wilted and fell like a flower before the mower's scythe. Millicent prevented the fall, while Sterling rang for water, and Chip, peering about with more agitation than any one else, finally remarked,-- "The girl must be sick;--better take her out."