every shilling to you."

"I believe you would, dear Miles," answered Lucy, with fervent warmth of
manner. "You have ever been all that is good and kind to me, and I shall
never forget it."

"Talk of my kindness to you, Lucy, when you parted with every cent you had
on earth to give me the gold you possessed, on my going to sea. I am
almost sorry you are now so much richer than myself, else would I
certainly make you my heir."

"We will not talk of money any longer in this sacred place," Lucy answered
tremulously. "What I did as a foolish girl you will forget; we were but
children then, Miles."

So Lucy did not wish me to remember certain passages in our earlier youth!
Doubtless her present relations to Andrew Drewett rendered the
recollection delicate, if not unpleasant. I thought this less like herself
than was her wont--Lucy, who was usually so simple-minded, so
affectionate, so frank and so true. Nevertheless, love is an engrossing
sentiment, as I could feel in my own case, and it might be that its
jealous sensitiveness took the alarm at even that which was so innocent
and sincere. The effect of these considerations, added to that of Lucy's
remark, was to change the discourse, and we conversed long, in melancholy
sadness, of her we had lost, for this life, altogether.

"We may live, ourselves, to grow old, Miles," Lucy observed, "but never
shall we cease to remember Grace as she was, and to love her memory, as we
loved her dear self in life. There has not been an hour since her death,
that I have not seen her sitting at my side, and conversing in sisterly