Lucy was a young girl of nineteen or twenty, with the brightest face, the most sparkling eyes, and the merriest voice which ever adorned woman entering her prime. Her laughter was contagious, and the listener must perforce laugh in unison. Her face drove away gloom, as the sun does; her smile was pure merriment, routing all cares; and Mowbray's sad countenance became again serene, his lips smiled. Lucy bowed demurely to the boy, who held out his hand laughing. "Oh! Ernest and myself are sworn friends," he said; "and the fact is, Miss Lucy, I had serious doubts whether I should not kiss you--I love you so much--for Ernest's sake!" And Hoffland pursed up his lips, prepared for all things. Lucy was so completely overcome by laughter at this extraordinary speech, that for a moment she remained perfectly silent, shaking with merriment. Hoffland conceived the design to take advantage of this astonishment, and modestly "held up his mouth," as children say. The consequence was that Miss Lucy extricated her hand from his grasp, and drew back with some hauteur; whereupon Hoffland assumed an expression of such mortification and childlike dissatisfaction, that Mowbray, who had witnessed this strange scene, could not suppress a smile. "I might as well tell you frankly at once, Lucy," he said, "that Charles is the oddest person, and I think the most perfect boy, at times, I have ever known." "I a boy!" cried Hoffland; "I am no such thing!--am I, Lucy--_Miss_ Lucy, I mean, of course? I am not so young as all that, and I see nothing so strange in wanting a kiss. But I won't misbehave any more; come now, see!" And drawing himself up with a delightful expression of dignified courtesy, Hoffland said, solemnly offering his arm to Lucy: "Shall I have the honor, Miss Mowbray, of escorting you into the garden for the purpose of gathering some roses to deck your queenly brow?" Lucy would have refused; but overcome with laughter, and unable to resist the ludicrous solemnity of Hoffland's voice and manner, she placed her finger on his arm, and they walked into the garden. Roseland was a delightful little cottage, full of flowers, and redolent of spring. It fronted south, and seemed to be the favorite of the sun, which shone through its vine-embowered windows and lit up its drooping eaves, as it nowhere else did. A little passage led quite through the house, and by this passage Hoffland and his fair companion entered the garden. Mowbray sat down and examined some papers which he took from his pocket; then trained a flowering vine from the window-sill to a nail in the wall without, for he was very fond of flowers; then, bethinking himself that Hoffland was his guest, turned to go into the garden. As he did so, he caught sight of a horseman approaching the cottage; and soon this horseman drew near enough to be recognised. It was Mr. John Denis, whose admiration for Miss Lucy Mowbray our readers have possibly divined from former pages of this true history.