hich
humility, reverence, and dignity, were equally blended. Neither, indeed,
could for a single moment doubt that an accomplished and educated
gentlewoman stood before her. Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty
to speak first, and account for a visit so unexpected.

"I know not," she said, "as yet, how to measure the apology which I
ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here. My heart tells me
that I have the honor of addressing that lady."

"I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy woman."

Lucy approached her, and said, "Do not reject me, madam; pardon me--love
me--pity me;--I am Lucy Gourlay."

Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaiming, as she did it, in a voice of
the deepest emotion, "My dear niece--my child--my daughter if you will;"
and they wept long and affectionately on each other's bosoms.

"You are the only living individual," said Lucy, after some time, "whom
I could ask to pity me; but I am not ashamed to solicit your sympathy.
Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy. But this, I fear, is wrong; for why
should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourself have
been compelled to bear? I fear it is selfish and ungenerous to do so."

"No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or misery which we are
forced, perhaps, for wise purposes, to bear, it is ordained, for
purposes equally wise and beneficent, that every act of sympathy with
another's sorrow lessens our own. Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will
be permitted to do so, be a loving mother to you, and stand to my heart
in relation to the child I have lost; or think that your own dear mother
still survives in me."

This kindness and affection fairly overcame Lucy, who sat down on a
sofa, and wept bitterly. Lady Gourlay herself was deeply affected for
some minutes, but, at length, resuming composure, she sat beside Lucy,
and, taking her hand, said: "I can understand, my dear child, the nature
of your grief; but be comforted. Your heart, which was burdened, will
soon become lighter, and better spirits will return; so, I trust, will
better times. It is not from the transient and unsteady, and too often
painful, incidents of life, that we should attempt to draw consolation,
but from a fixed and firm confidence in the unchangeable purposes of
God."

"I wish, dear Lady Gourlay--dear aunt--"

"Yes, that is better, my love."

"I wish I had known you before; of late I have been alone--with none
to advise or guide me; for, she, whose affect