"That never will do, sir!"
"Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr. Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'"
The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like her haughty relative than ever, as she answered—
"I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago, that—my father—that we were still secured a home at least." And her voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully.
"Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet been paid for."
Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and manner.
"I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent on any one."
"Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover. "Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child, and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's a great shock. I feel it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with trouble we can't help."
It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes gushes of bitter tears, that Lucy trod the floor of her room all that long afternoon, while her mother received, in the parlor below, visits of condolence from friends and acquaintances, who came, some because custom required it, and others because they had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome a kindly sympathy had been in their affliction. The children, Grace and Willie, sat reading together with their arms about each other until the twilight came, and they began to wonder what made sister stay away alone so long, and finally deputed George to go "very softly" and see if she would not come down to tea, "as Doctor Howard was still talking to mamma, and they were very lonely."
"Come in," said Lucy, as she recognized her brother's voice; and then she made him sit down beside her, and led him to talk of their future life and what he had intended to accomplish. It had been in the boy's mind all day, and he spoke very earnestly. He would be so industrious after this, and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle Thomas, and then mamma should come and live with him, when Lucy was married and the children grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond anticipations and throw the shadow of care over that bright young face, from which she had parted back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave up her first resolve of telling him all the truth, but said—