Moved by this powerful appeal, Lucy cast her eye on the billet; a strange sort of emotion passed across her face, and she abruptly broke the seal, and proceeded to peruse the contents, while Charley applied himself, with equal zeal, to the perusal of her countenance. In it he could read, first, surprise, extreme and undisguised; secondly, confusion; and lastly, something undefinable, which at all events was not displeasure, for she concluded by looking fixedly at him for a moment or two, and then yielding to a most unladylike fit of laughter. “Well, Lucy, is all right?” asked Charley, delighted at this demonstration. “All, all,” she responded. “Why, Charley, you must be canonized for your punctuality in the delivery of letters. But remember, not a word to mamma--mum, Charley. And now be off, lest she should come down, and ask what brought you back.” “But, Lucy,” interrupted the ardent lover, “now that’s all settled, I think you might”---- “Well, here--take it--anything to get rid of you.” “Oh, Lucy! Lucy!” Next morning terrible was the hubbub in the household of Mrs Bindon. Miss Lucy was nowhere to be had; in fact, had eloped with a gentleman who had arrived at the inn the evening before, though by what means she could have communicated with him, or he with her, must, as the story-books say, for ever remain a mystery, unless we are to suppose the gentleman had the audacity to make Charley the bearer of his proposals in his exculpatory letter; at least, one to the following purport was found in her room next morning:-- “Dearest Lucy--So you have not forgotten me! It is needless to say I know you to be the writer of the sweet valentine I received last week. It has awakened new hopes in me--hopes that I have ventured here to put to the test. In a word, will you be mine?--if so, we have nothing to hope from your mother. We must elope this night, and I shall accordingly have a carriage in readiness near your door until morning. Pray excuse the bearer all his mistakes, and this last particularly.--Ever your own E. F.” The dowager recognised the initials, but all the rest was heathen Greek to her. “Oh, Lucy! Lucy!” she exclaimed, in the bitterness of her grief, “did I ever think I was rearing you up to see you make a man of the house, at last, out of an attorney’s skip!” A. M’C. WHY DO ROOTS GROW DOWNWARDS, AND STEMS TOWARDS THE HEAVENS? FIRST ARTICLE.