or mother, or brother, or
sister, will ever call forth."

"Nay, Lucy, were you not adopted by my father, and am I not your
brother?"

A glance whose brightness melted into tears was her only answer.

"Fie! fie! tears again? I shall have to scold my sister," said Edward
Houstoun. "What complaint can you make now that I have found you a
brother?"

Lucy laughed, but soon her face grew grave, and, after a thoughtful
pause, she said, "I believe those cannot be quite happy who feel that
they have nothing to do in the world. Better be the poorest drudge, with
powers fitted to your station, than to be as I am, an idler--a mere
looker-on at the world."

"Why, Lucy! what else am I?"

"You! You, with fortune to bless, and influence to guide hundreds!
What are you? God's representative to your less fortunate
fellow-creatures--the steward of his bounty. Oh! be sure that you use
your gifts faithfully."

Lucy spoke solemnly, and it was with no light accent that Edward
Houstoun replied--"You mistake, Lucy--you mistake--I am in truth no less
an idler than yourself--a looker-on, with no part in the game of life.
To the Lady Houstoun belong both the fortune and the influence." A
mocking smile had arisen to his lip, but, as he caught her look of
surprise, it passed away, leaving a gentle gravity in its place, while
he continued--"Do not think I mean to complain of my mother, Lucy. She
has been ever affectionate and indulgent to me. She leaves me no want
that she can perceive. My purse is always full, and my actions
unrestrained. I suppose I ought to be happy."

"And are you not happy?"

"No, Lucy, no! There has long been a vague restlessness and
dissatisfaction about me--and, now, your words have thrown light on its
cause. I am weary of the perpetual holiday which life has been to me
since I left the walls of a college. I want to be doing--I want an
object--something for which to strive and hope and fear--what shall it
be, Lucy?"

"I have heard Mr. Merton say that no one could choose for another his
aims in life, but were I choosing for myself, it should be something
that would connect me with the minds of others--something by which I
could do service to their spiritual beings. Were I a man, I should like
to write books--such books as would give counsel and comfort to erring
and sad hearts--"

Edward Houstoun shook his head--"Even had I an author's gifts, Lucy,
that would not do for me--I must have action in my life--"

"