pain over
Cilla's face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, 'Yes--yes--of course;
but he must not--he must not do it! He cannot afford it! I cannot let
him!'

'Perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.'

'I have no hope of him. Besides, he cannot help himself; but at least--I
say, Phoebe, tell Honor that it is kindness itself in her; but I can't
talk about it to her--'

And Lucilla's steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and
speech of all.

After the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter
recollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door met the
curate. After a few words, she turned, and said, 'Mr. Prendergast would
row us down to the vicarage, if you liked.'

'Indeed, my dear,' said Honor, unwillingly, 'I am afraid of the cold on
the water for you.'

'Then pray let me walk across the park!' she said imploringly; and Miss
Charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though
dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with Phoebe in the fly.

'You are sure it is not too far for you?' asked the curate.

'Quite. You know I always used to fly upon Wrapworth turf.' After some
silence--'I know what you have been doing,' she said, with a choking
voice.

'About the picture? I am sorry you do.'

'It is of no use for you to know that your cousin has no more heart than
a lettuce run to seed.'

'When I knew that before, why may I not know that there are others not in
the same case?' she said, with full heart and eyes.

'Because the sale must take place, and the purchaser may be a brute, so
it may end in disappointment.'

'It can't end in disappointment.'

'It may be far beyond my means,' continued the curate, as if he had been
answering her importunities for a new doll.

'That I know it is,' she said. 'If it can be done at all, the doing of
it may be left to Miss Charlecote--it is an expiation I owe to her
generous spirit.'

'You would rather she did it than I?' he asked, mortified.

'Nay--didn't I tell you that I let her do it as an expiation. Does not
that prove what it costs me?'

'Then why not--' he began.

'Because,' she interrupted, 'in the first place, you have no idea of the
price of Lawrence's portraits; and, in the second, it is so natural that
you should be kind to me that it costs even my proud spirit--just nothing
at all'--and again she looked up to him with beamy, tearful eyes, and
quivering, smiling lip.

'What, it