ucy!
It was an unlucky day when he saw that colonial young lady, and settled
down in Vancouver's Island! And yet how I used to wish him away, with
the surly independence he was always infusing into Owen. Wanting to take
him out there, indeed! And yet, and yet--I sometimes doubt whether I did
right to set my personal influence over my dear affectionate boy so much
in opposition to his uncle--Mr. Charteris was on my side, though! And I
always took care to have it clearly understood that it was his education
alone that I undertook. What can Mr. Saville mean?--The supplies? Owen
knows what he has to trust to, but I can talk to him. A daring
set!--Yes, everything appears daring to an old-world man like Mr.
Saville. I am sure of my Owen; with our happy home Sundays. I know I am
his Sweet Honey still. And yet'--then hastily turning from that dubious
'and yet'--'Owen is the only chance for his sister. She does care for
him; and he will view this mad scheme in the right light. Shall I meet
him at the beginning of the vacation, and see what he can do with Lucy?
Mr. Saville thinks I ought to be in London, and I think I might be useful
to the Parsonses. I suppose I must; but it _is_ a heart-ache to be at
St. Wulstan's. One is used to it here; and there are the poor people,
and the farm, and the garden--yes, and those dear nightingales--and you,
poor Ponto! One is used to it here, but St. Wulstan's is a fresh pain,
and so is coming back. But, if it be in the way of right, and to save
poor Lucy, it must be, and it is what life is made of. It is a
"following of the funeral" of the hopes that sprang up after my
spring-time. Is it my chastisement, or is it my training? Alas! maybe I
took those children more for _myself_ than for duty's sake! May it all
be for their true good in the end, whatever it may be with me. And now I
_will_ not dream. It is of no use save to unnerve me. Let me go to my
book. It must be a story to-night. I cannot fix my attention yet.'

As she rose, however, her face brightened at the sight of two advancing
figures, and she went forward to meet them.

One was a long, loosely-limbed youth of two-and-twenty, with broad
shoulders, a heavy overhanging brow, dark gray serious eyes, and a mouth
scarcely curved, and so fast shut as to disclose hardly any lip. The
hair was dark and lank; the air was of ungainly force, that had not yet
found its purpose, and therefore was not at ease; and but for