nction without a difference--they are equivalent terms."

Thus jested his friends, and thus jested Edward Houstoun with them--well
assured that no gleam of the truth had shined on them--that they never
supposed his visits at Farmer Pye's possessed any greater attraction
than could be derived from the farmer's details of improvements made at
the Glen, of the increased value of lands, or the proceeds of the last
year's crop. They had never seen Lucy Watson, and how could they suspect
that while the farmer smoked his pipe at the door, and the good dame
bustled about her household concerns, he sat watching with enamored eyes
the changes of a countenance full of intelligence and sensibility, and
listening with charmed ears to a soft, musical voice recounting, with
all the simple eloquence of genuine feeling, obligations to the father
whose memory was with him almost an idolatry. Still less could they
divine that Shakspeare, and Milton, and Spenser were indeed often read
beside a purling stream, and within the dense shadow of a grove of oak
and chestnut-trees--not to Nymph or Dryad, but to a "mortal being of
earth's mould,"

"A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For simple pleasures, harmless wiles,
For love, blame, kisses, tears and smiles."

Here, one afternoon, a fortnight after the departure of his friends, sat
Edward Houstoun with Lucy at his side. They had lingered till the
sunlight, which had fallen here and there in broken and changeful gleams
through over-arching boughs, touching with gold the ripples at their
feet, had faded into that

"mellow light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

Edward Houstoun held a book in his hand, but it had long been closed,
while he was engaged in a far more interesting study. He had with a
delicate tact won his companion to speak as she had never spoken before
of herself--not of the few events of her short life, for these were
already known to him, but of the influence of those events on feeling
and character. Tenderness looked forth without disguise from the earnest
eyes which were fastened on her, as he said, "You say, Lucy, that you
have found friends every where, have met only kindness, and yet you
weep--you are sad."

"Do not think me ungrateful," she replied. "I have indeed found friends
and kindness--but these give exercise only to my gratitude--stronger,
tenderer affections I have, which no father,