onor, I would never have taken up
with them.'

Without misadventure, Lucilla arrived at London Bridge, and took a cab
for Woolstone-lane, where she must seek more exact intelligence of the
locality of those she sought. So long had her eye been weary of novelty,
while her mind was ill at ease, that even Holborn in the August sun was
refreshingly homelike; and begrimed Queen Anne, 'sitting in the sun'
before St. Paul's, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of hope and
self-approval. An effort was necessary to recall how melancholy was the
occasion of her journey, and all mournful anticipation was lost in the
spirit of partisanship and patronage--yes, and in that pervading
consciousness that each moment brought her nearer to Whittingtonia.

Great was the amaze of good Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, at the arrival
of Miss Lucy, and equal disappointment that she would neither eat nor
rest, nor accept a convoy to No. 8, Little Whittington-street. She
tripped off thither the instant she had ascertained the number of the
house, and heard that her brother was there, and his wife still living.

She had formed to herself no image of the scenes before her, and was
entirely unprepared by reflection when she rang at the door. As soon as
she mentioned her name, the little maid conducted her down-stairs, and
she found herself in the sitting-room, face to face with Robert Fulmort.

Without showing surprise or emotion, or relaxing his grave, listening
air, he merely bowed his head, and held out his hand. There was an
atmosphere of awe about the room, as though she had interrupted a
religious office; and she stood still in the solemn hush, her lips
parted, her bosom heaving. The opposite door was ajar, and from within
came a kind of sobbing moan, and a low, feeble, faltering voice faintly
singing--

'For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep.'

The choking thrill of unwonted tears rushed over Lucilla, and she
shuddered. Robert looked disappointed as he caught the notes; then
placing a seat for Lucilla, said, very low, 'We hoped she would waken
sensible. Her mother begged me to be at hand.'

'Has she never been sensible?'

'They hoped so, at one time, last night. She seemed to know him.'

'Is he there?'

Robert only sighed assent, for again the voice was heard--'I must get up.
Miss Sandbrook wants me. She says I shan't be afraid when the time
comes; but oh!--so many