, as Lucy
darted past. "Wait a little and I will come to you," she cried. What was
the dinner in comparison? She flew up to the nursery only to find it
vacant. The morning was clingy and damp, no weather for the delicate
child to go out, and Lucy was not alarmed but knew well enough where to
find him. The long picture gallery which ran along the front of the
house was his usual promenade on such occasions, and there she betook
herself hurriedly. There could not be much doubt as to little Tom's
whereabouts. Shrieks of baby fun were audible whenever she came within
hearing, and the sound of a flying foot careering from end to end of the
long space, which certainly was not the foot of Tom's nurse, whose voice
could be heard in cries of caution, "Oh, take care, Miss! Oh, for
goodness sake--oh, what will my lady say to me if you should trip with
him!" Lucy paused suddenly, checked by the sound of this commotion. Once
before she had surprised a scene of the kind, and she knew what it
meant. She stopped short, and stood still to get possession of herself.
It was a circumstance which pulled her up sharply and changed the
current of her mind. Her first feeling was one of disappointment and
almost irritation. Could she not even have the baby to herself, she
murmured? But there was in reality so little of the petty in Lucy's
disposition that this was but a momentary sentiment. It changed,
however, the manner of her entrance. She came in quietly, not rushing to
seize her boy as she had intended, but still with her superstition
strong in her heart, and as determined to resort to the _Sortes Tomianae_
as ever. The sight she saw was one to make a picture of. Skimming along
the long gallery with that free light step which scarcely seemed to
touch the ground was Bice, a long stream of hair flying behind her, the
child seated on her shoulder, supported by one raised arm, while the
other held aloft the end of a red scarf which she had twisted round him.
Little Tom had one hand twisted in her hair, and with his small feet
beating upon her breast, and his little chest expanded with cries of
delight, encouraged his steed in her wild career. The dark old pictures,
some full-length Randolphs of an elder age, good for little but a
background, threw up this airy group with all the perfection of
contrast. They flew by as Lucy came in, so joyous, so careless, so
delightful in pose and movement, that she could not utter the little cry
of alarm that