at moment, been intent upon her mother, who, in all respects,
had been so different from this careful, sheet-darning housewife of a
woman. And in thinking of her mother there had no doubt been regrets
for many things of which she would not have ventured to speak as
sharing her thoughts with the memory of her mother, but which were
nevertheless there to add darkness to the retrospective. Everything
behind had been so bright, and everything behind had gone away from
her! Everything before was so gloomy, and everything before must last
for so long! After her aunt's lecture about wasted time Lucy sat
silent for a few minutes, and then burst into uncontrolled tears.

"I did not mean to vex you," said her aunt.

"I was thinking of my--darling, darling mamma," sobbed Lucy.

"Of course, Lucy, you will think of her. How should you not? And of
your father. Those are sorrows which must be borne. But sorrows such
as those are much lighter to the busy than to the idle. I sometimes
think that the labourers grieve less for those they love than we do
just because they have not time to grieve."

"I wish I were a labourer then," said Lucy, through her tears.

"You may be if you will. The sooner you begin to be a labourer the
better for yourself and for those about you."

That Aunt Dosett's voice was harsh was not her fault,--nor that in
the obduracy of her daily life she had lost much of her original
softness. She had simply meant to be useful, and to do her duty; but
in telling Lucy that it would be better that the labouring should be
commenced at once for the sake of "those about you,"--who could only
be Aunt Dosett herself,--she had seemed to the girl to be harsh,
selfish, and almost unnatural. The volume of poetry fell from her
hand, and she jumped up from the chair quickly. "Give it me at once,"
she said, taking hold of the sheet,--which was not itself a pleasant
object; Lucy had never seen such a thing at the bijou. "Give it me at
once," she said, and clawed the long folds of linen nearly out of her
aunt's lap.

"I did not mean anything of the kind," said Aunt Dosett. "You should
not take me up in that way. I am speaking only for your good, because
I know that you should not dawdle away your existence. Leave the
sheet."

Lucy did leave the sheet, and then, sobbing violently, ran out of the
room up to her own chamber. Mrs. Dosett determined that she would
not follow her. She partly forgave the girl because of her sorrows,