d you see her, please, to-morrow, if you have time?"

"Yes, certainly," said the Curate; and then there was a pause. "Is
there nothing but this that you will let me do for you?" he asked,
trusting to his looks to show the heart, which at this moment he was
so much tempted to disclose to her, but dared not. And even in all her
trouble Lucy was too much of a woman to neglect an opportunity so
tempting.

"Thank you," she said. "Yes, there are those poor little Bertrams I
was to have seen today--if you would be so very good as to send some
one to them." Lucy lifted her eyes only as she ended this little
speech. She had meant it cruelly, to be sure, and the arrow had gone
home; but when she met the look that was fixed on her after her little
shaft was fired, Lucy's resolution faltered. The tears came rushing to
her eyes so hot and rapid that she could not restrain them. Some
trouble of her own gave poignancy to that outbreak of filial grief.
"Papa is so very ill!" she said, with a sob, as a scalding drop fell
upon her hand; and then got up suddenly, afraid of the consequences.
But the Curate, mortified, wounded, and disheartened as he was, had no
comprehension either of the bitterness or the relenting that was in
Lucy's thoughts. Rosa Elsworthy did not so much as occur to him in all
his confused wonderings. He went after her to the door, too much
perplexed and distressed to be indignant, as his first impulse was.
She turned half round, with a tremulous little inclination of her
head, which was all the good-night she could venture on. But the young
man was too much disturbed to permit this.

"You will give me your hand, surely," he said, taking it, and holding it
fast--a hand so different from that weak woman's hand that clung to
Gerald without any force to hold him, in Wentworth Rectory. Those
reluctant fingers, so firm and so soft, which scorned any struggle to
withdraw themselves, but remained passive in his with a more effectual
protest still against his grasp, wrung the very heart of the Perpetual
Curate. He let them go with a sigh of vexation and disappointment.
"Since that is all I can do, I will do it," he said--"that or anything
else." She had left him almost before the words were said; and it was in
a very disconsolate mood that he turned back into the deserted
drawing-room. To tell the truth, he forgot everything else for the
moment, asking himself what it could mean; and walked about stumbling
over the chairs,