ver!

The scene inside the cottage was painfully distressing. The old dame
was lying on a bed with her clothes still about her, showing that she
had not gone to rest the whole night. The village doctor was by her
side, having just bled her, whilst everything strewed about the room
indicated that the always revolting operation had but recently been
performed. The neighbours, as they crowded round the door, denounced
Luke's conduct as rash and heartless. In the midst of their
denunciations they were joined by another, to whom every word they
uttered was as a death-wound. It was Lucy.

Whoever has had the misfortune of often seeing women placed in sudden
difficulties, or overtaken by an unforeseen misfortune, must have
remarked that they occasionally act with unexpected firmness. They
frequently show a calmness of manner and a directness of purpose,
forming quite an exception to their every-day demeanour. It is after
the danger is over, or the first crisis past, that they break down,
as it were, and show themselves to belong to the weaker sex. Thus it
was with Lucy. When she entered the cottage, she had a full knowledge
of the death-blow which had been inflicted on her hopes of future
happiness. Still, she seemed calm and collected. When she took the
basin from the surgeon to bathe Mrs Damerel's temples herself, her
hand shook not, and she performed the kindly office as neatly as if
no misfortune had befallen her. When she went to the door to entreat
the neighbours to stand away from it, that sufficient air might be
admitted into the room, her voice, though rather deeper in tone than
usual, was calm and firm. Had she not occasionally pressed her hand
tightly against her brow, as if to cool its burning agony, you would
have thought that she suffered no further anxiety than that which is
usually felt whilst attending the sick.

It was, however, when she was left alone with the exhausted, almost
senseless mother, that the tide of grief took its full course. Lucy
wept like one distraught. Through the deep, black future which lay
before her, she could see no gleam of hope or sunlight. She unjustly
upbraided herself for having, however innocently, given Luke cause of
suspicion. The weight of blame which she took to herself was almost
insupportable. 'I have been his ruin!' she exclaimed, burying her
face in his mother's bosom.

When the old dame had strength to speak, she whispered Lucy not to
give way, but to bear up agains