"How is my child?"
"She is much better, dear uncle—but she is very weak, you know, yet—and her spirits are uncertain—though she tried to exert them, lest you might think her dull. I shall give her entirely to you to take care of now."
"My good girl," he replied, with the thick, husky voice of suppressed emotion, "when I worked, for so many long years, at a business that I hated—I dreamed of such a time as this. The last few hours have been the happiest I have spent since my retirement. And is not this your doing? How true it is, that we often entertain angels unawares."
She tried to speak, while tears of hallowed pleasure dimmed the sparkle of her deep azure eyes, her lips trembled, and her cheek flushed; then stooping over the hand that held hers, she kissed it, drew herself away, and fled from the room.
She might have said to herself—"What! have I devoted so many weeks to his service, and yet a few hours from the truant Lucy give him more pleasure than all those of my unwearied service!"
But no such thought, even by its most transitory influence, sullied the heart of the self-devoted girl.
[CHAPTER III.]
Merrily, merrily,
Welcome and sweet,
Ready hearts, waiting them,
Sabbath chimes greet.
Mournfully, mournfully,
Yet do they fall
On the dull, worldly ear.
Deaf to their call.