disappointment now impending. Remember, my own conditions are: all the
letters, and that we meet as utter strangers. I ask nothing more, I will
accept nothing less. As regards Clara, he cannot, I suspect, make any
difficulty; but that may be a question for ulterior consideration. Clara
is growing up pretty, but has lost all her spirits, and will, in a few
months more, look every day of her real age. I am sadly vexed about this;
but it comes into the long category of the things to be endured."

The letter wound up with some little light and flippant allusions to her
father's complaints about political ingratitude:--

"I really do forget, dear papa, which are our friends; but surely no
party would refuse your application for a moderate employment. The only
creature I know personally amongst them is the Colonial Sec., and he
says, 'They 've left me nothing to give but the bishoprics.'
Better that, perhaps, than nothing, but could you manage to accept
one? _that_ is the question. There is an Irish M.P. here--a certain
O'Shea--who tells me there are a variety of things to give in the West
Indies, with what he calls wonderful pickings--meaning, I suppose,
stealings. Why not look for one of these? I 'll question my friend the
Member more closely, and give you the result.

"It was odd enough, a few months ago, O'S., never suspecting to whom he
was talking, said, 'There was an old fellow in Ireland, a certain Nick
Holmes, could tell more of Government rogueries and rascalities than
any man living; and if I were he, I 'd make them give me the first good
thing vacant, or I 'd speak out.' Dear papa, having made so much out
of silence, is it not worth while to think how much eloquence might be
worth?

"Your affectionate daughter,

"Lucy M."

CHAPTER XVI. A SICK-ROOM

It was a severe night of early winter,--one of those stormy intervals in
which Italy seems to assume all the rigors of some northern land, with
an impetuosity derived from her own more excitable latitude. The rain
beat against the windows with distinct and separate plashes, and the
wind rattled and shook the strong walls with a violence that seemed
irresistible.

In a large old room of a very old palace at Lucca, Alfred Layton walked
to and fro, stopping every now and then to listen to some heightened
effort of the gale without, and then resuming his lonely saunter. There
were two large and richly ornamented fireplaces, and in one of them a
small fire w