hole matter. It will make no odds whether what looks impossible
becomes possible--he is to me what no one beside can ever be. There, it is
out now, and I pray you do not despise me. I will be ever so patient now. I
will do all I am bidden, and one day, Mary, we will leave this place--it is
no home now, and I will return to my Lady Pembroke, and Humphrey Ratcliffe
will find Ambrose, and you will be his wife, and--'

'Hush, Lucy; not a word more. I will keep sacred and secret in my heart
what you have told me, dear child. I will not judge you hardly. You are
young--so young--as young as I was when I went forth to sorrow and misery.
For you, even though I think your dream baseless, and that you are feeding
hope on what may turn out to be the ashes of disappointment, I will not
despair. I know your idol is worthy, and love for one who is pure and noble
cannot work ill in the end. I will keep your secret; now, Lucy, little
sister--keep mine. I can never wed with another man, for my husband
lives--and has stolen from me my boy.'

'Mary, Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister's
pillow. 'Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only of
myself--I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really so
heartless and vain, I will be good and comfort you, Mary.'

Mary Gifford stroked Lucy's brown head, and murmured,--

'Dear child! dear child! we will help each other now as we have never done
before.'

From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester
seemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking
girlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and river
of womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares--others with
reluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to face
with the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly find
themselves on the other side to return no more.

BOOK II

Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve
As nature's work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might;
While each conceit an ugly figure bears
Which were we ill, well viewed in reason's light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming d