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 knew that there must be something painful