seemed, to her own guidance. But he had no authority to exercise,
no sort of claim to direct her actions, even if she consented to
accept his advice. As a last resource he ventured on an allusion
to the relative of whom she had spoken downstairs.

"When do you expect to see your brother-in-law again?" he said.

"I don't know," she answered. "I should like to see him--he is so
kind to me."

She turned aside to take leave of Lucy.

"Good-by, my little friend. If you live to grow up, I hope you
will never be such a miserable woman as I am." She suddenly
looked round at Mr. Rayburn. "Have you got a wife at home?" she
asked.

"My wife is dead."

"And _you_ have a child to comfort you! Please leave me; you
harden my heart. Oh, sir, don't you understand? You make me envy
you!"

Mr. Rayburn was silent when he and his daughter were out in the
street again. Lucy, as became a dutiful child, was silent, too.
But there are limits to human endurance--and Lucy's capacity for
self-control gave way at last.

"Are you thinking of the lady, papa?" she said.