"Heigho!" sighed Lucy, as she stood watching the gig with its clumsy, ill-groomed horse, and the shock-headed boy who drove, and compared the turnout with the spic-and-span well-ordered vehicles that were in use at Brackley; and then she went down the garden thinking how nice it was to have money, or rather its products, and of how sad it was that Moray's pursuits should always be making such heavy demands upon their income, and never pay anything back. In spite of the dreariness of the outer walls of the house, the garden at The Firs had its beauties. It was not without its claims to be called a wilderness still, but it was a pleasant kind of wilderness now, since it had been put in order, for it sloped down as steeply as the scarped side of some fortified town, and from the zigzagged paths a splendid view could be had over the wild common in fine weather, though it was a look-out over desolation in the wintry wet. For a great change had been wrought in this piece of ground since Moray had delved in it, and bent his back to weed and fill barrows with the accumulated growth of years. There was quite a charm about the place, and the garden seat or two, roughly made out of rustic materials, had been placed in the most tempting of positions, shaded by the old trees that had been planted generations back, but which the sandy soil had kept stunted and dense. But the place did not charm Lucy; it only made her feel more desolate and low spirited, for turn which way she would, she knew that while the rough laborious work had been done by her brother, Oldroyd's was the brain that had suggested all the improvements, his the hand that had cut back the wild tangle of brambles, that overgrown mass of ivy, placed the chairs and seats in these selected nooks where the best views could be had, and nailed up the clematis and jasmine that the western gales had torn from their hold. Go where she would, there was something to remind her of Oldroyd, and at last she grew, in spite of her self-command, so excited that she stopped short in dismay. "I shall make myself ill," she cried, half aloud; "and if I am ill, mamma will send for Mr Oldroyd; and, oh!" Lucy actually blushed with anger, and then turned pale with dread, as in imagination she saw herself turned into Philip Oldroyd's patient, and being ordered to put out her tongue, hold forth her hand that her pulse might be felt, and have him coming to see her once, perhaps twice, every day. With the customary inconsistency of young ladies in her state, she exclaimed, in an angry tone, full of protestation,-- "Oh, it would be horrible!" and directly after she hurried indoors. In due time Glynne arrived, and sent the pony carriage back, saying that she would walk home.