eatment of her pupils; she taught them diligently, kept good order, won
their affection and gave them some of her own, but nothing could obviate
her growing weariness of holding intercourse with no mind above eleven
years old. Trouble and anxiety she had known before, and even the
terrible heartache that she carried about with her might have failed to
wear down a being constituted as she was, without the long solitary
evenings, and the total want of companionship. The first shock had been
borne by the help of bustle and change, and it was only as weeks passed
on, that care and depression grew upon her. Lessons, walks, children's
games were oppressive in turn, and though the last good-night was a
welcome sound, yet the solitude that ensued was unspeakably forlorn.
Reading she had never loved, even had this been a house of books; the
children were too young to need exertion on her part to keep in advance
of them, and their routine lessons wore out her energies too much for her
to turn to her own resources. She did little but repair her wardrobe,
work for the boy in Whittington-street, and let thoughts drift through
her mind. That death-bed scene at Hyeres, which had so often risen
unbidden to her mind as she lay on her crib, was revived again, but it
was not her father whose ebbing life she watched. It was one for whom
she durst not ask, save by an inquiry from her brother, who had never
dropped his correspondence with Honora; but Owen was actively employed,
and his locality and habits were so uncertain that his letters were often
astray for long together. His third year of apprenticeship had begun,
and Lucilla's sole hope of a change from her present dreary captivity was
in his either returning with Mr. Currie, or finding employment and
sending for her and his child to Canada. 'By that time,' she thought,
'Europe will contain nothing to me. Nay, what does it contain that I
have a right to care for now? I don't delude myself. I know his look
and manner. His last thought will be for his flock at St. Matthew's, not
for her who drove him to the work that has been killing him. Oh, no, he
won't even forgive me, for he will think it the greatest service I could
have done him.' Her eyes were hot and dry; what a relief would tears
have been!

CHAPTER XXIV

Enid, my early and my only love,
I thought, but that your father came between,
In former days you saw me favourably,
And if it were so, do