knees by the child's little bed, crying,--

'Ambrose, sweetheart! Mother is here!'

'I'm glad on't,' said the child, in a sleepy, dreamy voice, as he turned
towards her, and wound his arms round her neck.

'I'm glad on't! I thought I had lost her.'

The sound of the child's voice smote on the ears of the unhappy father, and
sent a sharp thrill of pain through his heart.

Perhaps there never was a moment in his life when he felt so utterly
ashamed and miserable.

He felt the great gulf which lay between him and the pure woman whom he had
so cruelly deserted--a gulf, too, separating him from the child in his
innocent childhood--the possession of whom he so greatly coveted. For a
moment or two softer feelings got the mastery, and Ambrose Gifford stood
there, under the starlit sky, almost resolved to relinquish his purpose,
and leave the boy to his mother. But that better feeling soon passed, and
the specious reasoning, that he was doing the best for the child to have
him brought up a good Catholic, and educated as his mother could never
educate him, and that the end justified the means, and that he was bound to
carry out his purpose, made him say to himself, as he turned away,--

'I will do it yet, in spite of her, for the boy's salvation. Yes; by the
saints I will do it!'

* * * * *

The next few days passed without any summons for Lucy to join the household
at Penshurst.

She became restless and uneasy, fearing that, after all, she might miss
what she had set her heart upon.

Troubles, too, arose about her dress. She had been conscious on Sunday that
the ladies in attendance were far smarter than she was; and she had
overheard the maiden, who was addressed as 'Betty,' say,--

'That country child is vain of her gown, but it might have been put
together in the reign of our Queen's grandmother. And who ever saw a ruff
that shape; it is just half as thick as it ought to be.'

Poor little Lucy had other causes, as she thought, for discontent. The long
delay in the fulfilment of her wishes was almost too much for her patience;
but it was exasperating, one morning, to be summoned from the dairy by
little Ambrose to see a grand lady on a white horse, who asked if Mistress
Lucy Ratcliffe had gone to London.

Lucy ran out in eager haste, hoping almost against hope that it was some
lady from Penshurst, sent by the Countess to make the final arrangements.

To her dismay she found Doro