tern
heavens.

As Lucy gazed upon the scene before her, her large wistful eyes had in them
that look which, in days gone by, George had never seen there.

The dim light of a lamp hanging in the recess shone on Lucy's face, and
poor George felt something he could not have put into words, separating him
from the one love of his life. His thoughts suddenly went back to that
spring evening when Lucy, in her terror, had rushed to him for protection.
He recalled the sweetness of that moment, as a man perishing for thirst
remembers the draught of pure water from the wayside fountain, of which he
had scarcely appreciated the value, when he held it to his lips.

A deep sigh made Lucy turn towards him, and, to his surprise, she opened
the very subject which he had been struggling in vain to find courage to
begin.

'George,' she said, 'it would make me so happy if you could forget me, and
think of someone who could, and would, I doubt not, gladly return your
love.'

'If that is all you can say to me,' he answered gruffly, 'I would ask you
to hold your peace. How can I forget at your bidding? it is folly to ask me
to do so.'

'George,' Lucy said, and her voice was tremulous, so tremulous that George
felt a hope springing up in his heart.--'George, it makes me unhappy when I
think of you living alone with your mother, and--'

'You could change all that without delay, you know you could. I can't give
you a home and all the fine things you have at Wilton--'

'As if that had aught to do with it,' she said. 'I do not care for fine
things now; once I lived for them; that is over.'

'You love books, if not fine things,' he went on, gathering courage as he
felt Lucy, at any rate, could think with some concern, that he was lonely
and unhappy. 'You care for books. I have saved money, and bought all I
could lay my hand on at the shop in Paul's Churchyard. More than this, I
have tried to learn myself, and picked up my old Latin, that I got at
Tunbridge School. Yes, and there is a room at Hillside I call my lady's
chamber. I put the books there, and quills and parchment; and I have got
some picture tapestry for the walls, and stored a cupboard with bits of
silver, and--'

'Oh! George, you are too good, too faithful,' Lucy exclaimed. 'I am not
worthy; you do not really know me.' And, touched with the infinite pathos
of George's voice, as he recounted all he had done in hope, for her
pleasure, Lucy had much ado to keep back her tears.