city of a child, and turned round so
as to place herself in the position required by the aunt; but whilst she
did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifully and
fast over her timid but sparkling countenance?

"I do not wonder, my dear girl, that public rumor has borne its ample
testimony to your beauty. I have never seen either it or your figure
surpassed; but it is here, my dear," she added, placing her hand upon
her heart, "where the jewel that gives value to so fair a casket lies."

"How happy I am, my dear aunt," replied Lucy, anxious to change
the subject, since I know you. The very consciousness of it is a
consolation."

"And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be happy. When the dispensations
ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings."

The old footman now entered, saying: "Here is a note, my lady," and
he presented one, "which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your
ladyship's return."

Lady Gourlay took the note, saying: "Will you excuse me, my dear
niece?--this, I believe, is on a subject that is not merely near to, but
in the innermost recesses of my heart."

Lucy now took that opportunity on her part of contemplating the features
of her aunt; but, as we have already described them elsewhere, it is
unnecessary to do so here. She was, however, much struck with their
chaste but melancholy beauty; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and
affliction, while they impair the complexion of the most lovely, very
frequently communicate to it a charm so deep and touching, that in
point of fact, the heart that suffers within is taught to speak in the
mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they leave behind them
as their traces. As Lucy surveyed her aunt's features, which had been
moulded by calamity into an expression of settled sorrow--an expression
which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she
was surprised to observe at first a singular degree of sweetness appear;
next a mild serenity; and lastly, she saw that that serenity gradually
kindled into a radiance that might, in the hands of a painter, have
expressed the joy of the Virgin Mother on finding her lost Son in the
Temple. This, however, was again succeeded by a paleness, that for a
moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears.
On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inquiry as to
the cause of this extraordinary emotion, Lady Gourlay saw that her eyes
at l