our father must have been a man of very original mind, my Lucy. I have
heard of a great many schemes of benevolence, but never one like this."

"No?" said Lucy, anxiously watching the Contessa's eye, for it was so
strange to her to have sympathy on this point, that she felt a sort of
longing for it, and that this new critic, who treated the whole matter
with more moderation and reasonableness than usual, should approve.

"Generally one endows hospitals or builds churches; in my country there
is a way which is a little like yours; it is to give marriage
portions--that is very good I am told. It is done by finding out who is
the most worthy. And it is said also that not the most worthy is always
taken. Don't you remember there is a Rosiere in Barbe Bleue? Oh, I
believe you have never heard of Barbe Bleue."

"I know the story," said Lucy, with a smile, "of the many wives, and the
key, and sister Anne--sister Anne."

"Ah! that is not precisely what I mean; but it does not matter. So it is
this which makes you so grave, my pretty Lucy. I do not wonder. What a
charge for you! To encounter all the prejudices of the world which will
think you mad. I know it. And now your husband--the excellent Tom--he,"
said the Contessa, laying a caressing and significant touch upon Lucy's
arm, "does not approve?"

"Oh, Madame di Forno-Populo, that is the worst of it," cried Lucy, whose
heart was opened, and who had taken no precaution against assault on
this side; "but how do you know? for I thought that nobody knew."

The Contessa this time took Lucy's hand between hers, and pressed it
tenderly, looking at her all the time with a look full of meaning. "Dear
child," she said, "I have been a great deal in the world. I see much
that other people do not see. And I know his face, and yours, my little
angel. It is much for you to carry upon those young shoulders. And all
for the sake of goodness and charity."

"I do not know," said Lucy, "that it is right to say that; for, had it
been left to me, perhaps I should never have thought of it. I should
have been content with doing just what I could for the poor. No one,"
said Lucy, with a sigh, "objects to that. When people are quite poor it
is natural to give them what they want; but the others----"

"Ah, the others," said the Contessa. "Dear child, the others are the
most to be pitied. It is a greater thing, and far more difficult to give
to this good clergyman enough to make his children happ