In a few minutes Lucy joined me. She was in deep black of course, and that
may have added to the appearance of paleness; but no one could be deceived
in the manner in which the dear girl had mourned and wept since we parted.
The subdued expression of her face gave it a peculiar sweetness; and, in
spite of the absence of colour, I thought, as Lucy advanced towards me,
both hands extended, and a smile of anxious inquiry on her lips, that she
had never appeared more lovely. I did not hesitate about pressing those
hands with fervour, and of kissing the warm though colourless cheek. All
this passed as it might have done between an affectionate brother and
sister, neither of us thinking, I am persuaded, of aught but the
confidence and friendship of childhood.

"This is kind of you, dear Lucy," I said, as we took our seats at the
little table; "my cousin John Wallingford, though a good man in the main,
is scarcely near enough, or _dear_ enough, to be admitted at a time
like this."

"I have seen him," Lucy replied--the tremour in her voice showing how hard
she found it to avoid melting in tears, "and rather like him. I believe he
was a favourite with mamma Wallingford," so Lucy was accustomed to call my
mother, "and that ought to be a high recommendation with us, Miles."

"I am disposed to like him, and shall endeavour to keep up more
intercourse with him than I have hitherto done. It is as we begin to find
ourselves alone in the world, Lucy, that we first feel the necessity of
counting blood and kin, and of looking around us for support."

"Alone you are not, Miles, and never can be while I and my dear father
live. We are certainly nearer to you than any that now remain among your
blood relatives! You can neither suffer nor be happy without our partaking