siastic affection had captivated him, association revived
his earlier admiration, and swept away his futile apology that she had
brought the whole upon herself. A gust of pity, love, and remorse
convulsed his frame, and though too proud to give way, his restrained
anguish touched every heart, and almost earned him Mr. Prendergast's
forgiveness.

Before going away, Lucilla privately begged Mr. Prendergast to come to
town on Monday, to help her in some business. It happened to suit him
particularly well, as he was to be in London for the greater part of the
week, to meet some country cousins, and the appointment was made without
her committing herself by saying for what she wanted him, lest reflection
should convert him into an obstacle instead of an assistant.

The intervening Sunday, with Owen on her hands, was formidable to her
imagination, but it turned out better than she expected. He asked her to
walk to Westminster Abbey with him, the time and distance being an object
to both, and he treated her with such gentle kindness, that she began to
feel that something more sweet and precious than she had yet known from
him might spring up, if they were not forced to separate. Once, on
rising from kneeling, she saw him stealthily brushing off his tears, and
his eyes were heavy and swollen, but, softened as she felt, his tone of
feelings was a riddle beyond her power, between their keenness and their
petulance, their manly depth and boyish levity, their remorse and their
recklessness; and when he tried to throw them off, she could not but
follow his lead.

'I suppose,' he said, late in the day, 'we shall mortify Fulmort if we
don't go once to his shop. Otherwise, I like the article in style.'

'I am glad you should like it at all,' said Lucy, anxiously.

'I envy those who, like poor dear Honor, or that little Phoebe, can find
life in the driest form,' said Owen.

'They would say it is our fault that we cannot find it.'

'Honor would think it her duty to say so. Phoebe has a wider range, and
would be more logical. Is it our fault or misfortune that our ailments
can't be cured by a paring of St. Bridget's thumb-nail, or by any
nostrum, sacred or profane, that really cures their votaries? I regard
it as a misfortune. Those are happiest who believe the most, and are
eternally in a state in which their faith is working out its effects upon
them mentally and physically. Happy people!'

'Really I think, unless you