her into talk, I could see a rare
intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, grey
eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I
possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy's sake;
I planned walks for Lucy's sake; I watched the heavens by night, in
hopes that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs.
Clarke and Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome
above.

It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some
motive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but
then again I saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour,
and that there was a struggle going on in her mind, which at times (I
loved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though
the happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her
complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate
frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, to
my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not
giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a
few days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only
charging me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion
during the hot weather.

One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour
were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as
I passed the first window (there were two windows in their little
ground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at
their door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was gone, and I saw
only Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a
nervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversation
of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say
what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of the
opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the
old house in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and
had, as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side
I saw no obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her
name (I was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and
previous life were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and
sweet innocence, and although I