CHAPTER XXIII.

  “If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
  Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
  May not extend so far as to the lady.”
   Merchant of Venice.

Next morning, I was early afoot, and I found Grace as much alive to the charms of home, as I was myself. She put on a gypsy, and accompanied me into the garden, where to my surprise, I found Lucy. It looked like old times to be in that spot, again, with those two dear girls. Rupert alone was wanting to complete the picture; but, I had an intimate conviction that Rupert, as he had been at least, could never come within the setting of the family group again. I was rejoiced, however, to see Lucy, and more so, just where I found her, and I believe told her as much with my eyes. The charming girl looked happier than she had appeared the day before, or for many previous days indeed, and I felt less apprehension than of late, concerning her having met with any agreeable youth of a more genteel profession than that of a merchant-captain.

“I did not expect to find you here, Miss Lucy,” cried Grace, “eating half-ripe currants, too, or my eyes deceive me, at this early hour in the morning. It is not twenty minutes since you were in your own room, quite unadorned.”

“The green fruit of dear Clawbonny is better than the ripe fruit of those vile New York markets!” exclaimed Lucy, with a fervour so natural as to forbid any suspicion of acting. “I should prefer a Clawbonny potatoe, to a New York peach!”

Grace smiled, and, as soon as Lucy's animation had a little subsided, she blushed.

“How much better would it be, Miles,” my sister resumed, “could you be induced to think and feel with us, and quit the seas, to come and live for the rest of your days on the spot where your fathers have so long lived before you. Would it not, Lucy?”

“Miles will never do that,” Lucy answered, with emphasis. “Men are not like us females who love everything we love at all, with our whole hearts. Men prefer wandering about, and being shipwrecked, and left on desert islands, to remaining quietly at home, on their own farms. No, no; you'll never persuade Miles to do that.”

“I am not astonished my brother thinks desert islands such pleasant abodes, when he can find companions like Miss Merton on them.”

“You will remember, sister of mine, in the first place, that Marble Land is very far from being a desert island at all; and, in the next, that I first found Miss Merton in Hyde Park, London; almost in the canal, for that matter.”

“I think it a little odd that Miles never told us all about this, in his letters, at the time, Lucy. When young gentlemen drag young ladies out of canals, their friends at home have a right to know something of the matter.”

How much unnecessary misery is inflicted by unmeaning expressions like this. Grace spoke lightly, and probably without a second thought about the matter; but the little she said, not only made me thoughtful and uneasy, but it drove everything like a smile from the usually radiant countenance of her friend. The conversation dragged; and soon after, we returned together to the house.

I was much occupied that morning, in riding about the place with Mr. Hardinge, and in listening to his account of his stewardship, With the main results I was already acquainted—nay, possessed them in the Dawn,—but the details had all to be gone over, with the most minute accuracy. A more simple-minded being there was not on earth than Mr. Hardinge; and, that my affairs turned out so well was the result of the prosperous condition of the country at that day, the system my father had adopted in his life-time, and the good qualities of the different agents he had chosen, every one of whom remained in the situation in which he was at the sad moment of the fatal accident at the mill. Had matters really depended on the knowledge and management of the most excellent divine, they would soon have been at sixes and sevens.

“I am no believer in miracles, my dear Miles,” observed my guardian, with amusing self-complacency; “but I do think a change has been wrought in me, to meet the emergencies of a situation, in which the interests of two orphans have been so suddenly intrusted to my guidance and care. God be thanked! everything prospers; your affairs, as well as those of my dear Grace. It is wonderful, boy, how a man of my habits has been directed in his purchases of wheat, for instance; I, who never bought a bushel until the whole responsibility of your mills fell upon my shoulders I take no credit to myself for it—no credit to myself!”

“I hope the miller has not been backward, my dear sir, in giving you all the assistance in his power.”

“Morgan?—yes; he is always ready, and you know I never forget to send him into the market to both buy and sell. Really, his advice has been so excellent, that to me it has the appearance of being almost miraculous—prophetic, I should say, were it not improper. We should avoid all exaggeration in our gratitude, boy.”

“Very truly, sir. And in what manner have you managed to get along so well with the crops, on the place, itself?”

“Favoured by the same great adviser, Miles. It is really wonderful, the crops we have had; and the judgment that has been so providentially shown in the management of the fields, as well as of the mills!”

“Of course, sir, old Hiram (Neb's uncle) has always been ready to give you his aid?—Hiram has a great deal of judgment, in his way.”

“No doubt—no doubt—Hiram and I have done it all, led by a Providential counsel. Well, my boy, you ought to be satisfied with your earthly lot; for every thing seems to prosper that belongs to you. Of course, you will marry, one of these days, and transmit this place to your son, as it has been received from your fathers?”

“I keep that hope in perspective, sir; or, as we sailors say, for a sheet-anchor.”

“Your hope of salvation, boy, is your sheet-anchor, I trust. Nevertheless, we are not to be too hard on young men, and must let them have a little romance in their compositions. Yes, yes; I trust you will not become so much wedded to your ship, as not to think of taking a wife, one of these days. It will be a happy hour to me, when I can see another Mrs. Miles Wallingford at Clawbonny. She will be the third; for I can remember your grandmother.”

“Can you recommend to me a proper person to fill that honourable station, sir?” said I, smiling to myself, and exceedingly curious to hear the answer.

“What do you think of this Miss Merton, boy? She is handsome, and that pleases young men; clever, and that pleases old ones; well-educated, and that will last, when the beauty is gone; and, so far as I can judge, amiable; and that is as necessary to a wife, as fidelity. Marry no woman, Miles, that is not amiable!”

“May I ask what you call amiable, sir?—And, when that question is answered, I may venture to go so far as to inquire whom you call amiable?”

“Very sensible distinctions, and such as are entitled to fair answers; at least the first. I do not call levity, amiability; nor mere constitutional gaiety. Some of the seemingly most light-hearted women I have ever known, have been anything but amiable. There must be an unusual absence of selfishness,—a person must live less for herself, than others—or rather, must find her own happiness in the happiness of those she loves, to make a truly amiable woman. Heart and principle are at the bottom of what is truly amiable; though temperament and disposition undoubtedly contribute. As for the whom, your own sister Grace is a truly amiable young woman. I never knew her do anything to hurt another's feelings in my life.”

“I suppose you will admit, sir, I cannot very well marry Grace?”

“I wish you could, with all my heart—yes, with all my heart! Were not you and Grace brother and sister, I should consider myself well quit of the responsibility of my guardianship, in seeing you man and wife.”

“As that is out of the question, I am not without hopes you can mention another who will do just as well, so far as I am concerned.”

“Well, there is this Miss Merton—though I do not know her well enough to venture absolutely on a recommendation. Now, I told Lucy, no later than yesterday, while we were on the river, and as you were pointing out to Miss Merton the forts in the Highlands, that I thought you would make one of the handsomest couples in the state—and, moreover, I told her—bless me, how this corn grows! The plants will be in tassel in a few days, and the crop must turn out most beneficent—truly, truly—there is a providence in all things; for, at first, I was for putting the corn on yonder hill-side, and the potatoes here; but old Hiram was led by some invisible agency to insist on this field for the corn, and the hill-side for the potatoes—and, now, look, and see what crops are in promise! Think of a nigger's blundering on such a thing?”

In 1802, even well-educated and well-intentioned clergymen had no scruples in saying “nigger.”

“But, sir, you have quite forgotten to add what else you told Lucy?”

“True—true—it is very natural that you should prefer hearing me talk about Miss Merton, to hearing me talk about potatoes—I'll tell that to Lucy, too, you may depend on it.”

“I sincerely hope you will do no such thing, my dear sir,” I cried, in no little alarm.

“Ah! that betrays guilt—consciousness, I should say; for what guilt can there be in a virtuous love?—and rely on it, both the girls shall know all about it. Lucy and I often talk over your matters, Miles; for she loves you as well as your own sister. Ah! my fine fellow, you blush at it, like a girl of sixteen! But, there is nothing to be ashamed of, and there is no occasion for blushes.”

“Well, sir, letting my blushes—the blushes of a shipmaster!—but setting aside my blushes, for mercy's sake what more did you tell Lucy?”

“What more? Why I told her how you had been on a desert island, quite alone as one might say, with Miss Merton, and how you had been at sea, living in the same cabin as it were, for nine months; and it would be wonderful—wonderful, indeed, if two so handsome young persons should not feel an attachment for each other. Country might make some difference, to be sure—”

“And station, sir?—What do you think would be the influence of the difference of station, also?”

“Station!—Bless me, Miles; what difference in station is there between you and Miss Merton; that it should cause any obstacle to your union?”

“You know what it is, sir, as well as I do myself. She is the daughter of an officer in the British army, and I am the master of a ship. You will admit, I presume, Mr. Hardinge, that there is such, a thing as a difference in station?”

“Beyond all question. It is exceedingly useful to remember it; and I greatly fear the loose appointments of magistrates and other functionaries, that are making round the country, will bring all our notions on such subjects into great confusion. I can understand that one man is as good as another in rights, Miles; but I cannot understand he is any better, because he happens to be uneducated, ignorant, or a blackguard.”

Mr. Hardinge was a sensible man in all such distinctions, though so simple in connection with other matters.

“You can have no difficulty, however, in understanding that, in New York, for instance, I should not be considered the equal of Major Merton—I mean socially, altogether, and not in personal merit, or the claims which years give—and of course, not the equal of his daughter?”

“Why—yes—I know what you mean, now. There may be some little inequality in that sense, perhaps; but Clawbonny, and the ship, and the money at use, would be very apt to strike a balance.”

“I am afraid not, sir. I should have studied law, sir, had I wished to make myself a gentleman.”

“There are lots of vulgar fellows getting into the law, Miles—men who have not half your claims to be considered gentlemen. I hope you do not think I wished you and Rupert to study law in order to make gentlemen of you?”

“No, sir; it was unnecessary to take that step as regards Rupert, who was fully born in the station. Clergymen have a decided position all over the world, I believe; and then you are extremely well connected otherwise, Mr. Hardinge. Rupert has no occasion for such an assistance—with me it was a little different.”

“Miles—Miles—this is a strange fancy to come over a young man in your situation—and who, I am afraid, has been the subject of envy, only too often, to Rupert!”

“If the truth were known, Mr. Hardinge, I dare say both Rupert and Lucy, in their secret hearts, think they possess advantages, in the way of social station, that do not belong to Grace and myself.”

Mr. Hardinge looked hurt, and I was soon sorry that I had made this speech. Nor would I have the reader imagine that what I had said, proceeded in the least from that narrow selfish feeling, which, under the blustering pretension of equality, presumes to deny the existence of a very potent social fact; but simply from the sensitiveness of feelings, which, on this subject, were somewhat in danger of becoming morbid, through the agency of the most powerful passion of the human heart—or, that which has well been called the master-passion. Nevertheless, Mr. Hardinge was much too honest a man to deny a truth, and much too sincere to wish even to prevaricate about it, however unpleasant it might be to acknowledge it, in all its unpleasant bearings.

“I now understand you, Miles; and it would be idle to pretend that there is not some justice in what you say, though I attach very little importance to it, myself. Rupert is not exactly what I could wish him to be in all things, and possibly he may be coxcomb enough, at times, to fancy he has this slight advantage over you,—but, as for Lucy, I'll engage she never thinks of you but as a second brother—and that she loves you exactly as she loves Rupert.”

Mr. Hardinge's simplicity was of proof, and it was idle to think of making any impression on it. I changed the subject, therefore, and this was easily enough done, by beginning again to talk about the potatoes. I was far from being easy, nevertheless; for I could not avoid seeing that the good divine's restlessness might readily widen the little breach which had opened between his daughter and myself.

That day, at dinner, I discovered that Grace's winter in town had led to a sensible melioration of the domestic economy; most especially as related to the table. My father and mother had introduced some changes, which rendered the Clawbonny household affairs a little different from those of most other of the Ulster county families near our own class; but their innovations, or improvements, or whatever they might be called, were far from being as decided as those introduced by their daughter. Nothing, perhaps, sooner denotes the condition of people, than the habits connected with the table. If eating and drinking be not done in a certain way, and a way founded in reason, too, as indeed are nearly all the customs of polished life, whatever may be the cant of the ultras of reason—but, if eating and drinking be not done in a certain way, your people of the world perceive it sooner than almost anything else. There is, also, more of common sense and innate fitness, in the usages of the table, so long as they are not dependent on mere caprice, than in almost any other part of our deportment; for everybody must eat, and most persons choose to eat decently. I had been a little nervous on the subject of the Mertons, in connection with the Clawbonny table, I will confess; and great was my delight when I found the breakfast going off so well. As for the Major, himself by no means familiar with the higher classes of his own country, he had that great stamp of a gentleman, simplicity; and he was altogether above the cockney distinctions of eating and drinking; those about cheese and malt liquors, and such vulgar niceties; nor was he a man to care about the silver-forkisms; but he understood that portion of the finesse of the table which depended on reason and taste, and was accustomed to observe it. This I knew from near a twelve month's intercourse, and I had feared we might turn out to be a little too rustic.

Grace had made provisions against all this, with a tact and judgment for which I could have worshipped her. I knew the viands, the vegetables, and the wines would all be good of their kind, for in these we seldom failed; nor did I distrust the cookery, the English-descended families of the Middle States, of my class, understanding that to perfection; but I feared we should fail in those little incidents of style and arrangement, and in the order of the service, that denote a well-regulated table. This is just what Grace had seen to; and I found that a great revolution had been quietly effected in this branch of our domestic economy during my absence; thanks to Grace's observations while at Mrs. Bradfort's.

Emily seemed pleased at dinner, and Lucy could again laugh and smile. After the cloth was removed, the Major and Mr. Hardinge discussed a bottle of Madeira, and that too of a quality of which I had no reason to be ashamed; while we young people withdrew together to a little piazza, that was in the shade at that hour, and took seats, for a chat. Rupert was permitted to smoke, on condition that he would not approach within fifteen feet of the party. No sooner was this little group thus arranged, the three girls in a crescent, than I disappeared.

“Grace, I have not yet spoken to you of a necklace of pearls possessed by your humble servant,” I cried, as my foot again touched the piazza.—“I would not say a word about it—”

“Yet, Lucy and I heard all about it—” answered Grace with provoking calmness, “but would not ask to see it, lest you should accuse us of girlish curiosity. We waited your high pleasure, in the matter.”

“You and Lucy heard I had such a necklace!”

“Most unquestionably; I, Grace Wallingford, and she, Lucy Hardinge. I hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles Clawbonny”—so the girls often called me, when they affected to think I was on my high-ropes—“I hope it is no infringement on the rights of Mr. Miles Clawbonny to say as much.”

“And pray how could you and Lucy know anything about it?”

“That is altogether another question; perhaps we may accord an answer, after we have seen the necklace.”

“Miss Merton told us, Miles,” said Lucy, looking at me with gentleness, for she saw I really wished an answer; and what could Lucy Hardinge ever refuse me, that was right in itself when she saw my feelings were really interested?

“Miss Merton? Then I have been betrayed, and the surprise I anticipated is lost.”

I was vexed, and my manner must have shown it in a slight degree. Emily coloured, bit her lip, and said nothing; but Grace made her excuses with more spirit than it was usual for her to show.

“You are rightly punished, Master Miles,” she cried; “for you had no business to anticipate surprises. They are vulgar things at best, and they are worse than that when they come from a distance of fifteen thousand miles—from a brother to a sister. Besides, you have surprised us sufficiently once, already, in connection with Miss Merton.”

“I!” I exclaimed.

“Me!” added Emily.

“Yes, I and me; did you tell us one word about her, in your letters? and have you not now both surprised and delighted us, by making us acquainted with so charming a person? I can pardon such a surprise, on account of its consequences; but nothing so vulgar as a surprise about pearls.”

Emily blushed now; and in her it was possible to tell the difference between a blush and the suffusion that arose from a different feeling; but she looked immensely superior to anything like explanations.

“Captain Wallingford”—how I disliked that Captain—“Captain Wallingford can have but little knowledge of young ladies,” she said, coldly, “if he supposes such pearls as he possesses would not form the subject of their conversation.”

I was coxcomb enough to fancy Emily was vexed that I had neglected to be more particular about her being on the island, and her connection with the ship. This might have been a mistake; however.

“Let us see the pearls, Miles; and that will plead your apology,” said Lucy.

“There, then—your charming eyes, young ladies, never looked on pearls like those, before.”

Female nature could not suppress the exclamations of belight that succeeded. Even Rupert, who had a besetting weakness on the subject of all personal ornaments, laid aside his segar, and came within the prescribed distance, the better to admire. It was admitted all round, New York had nothing to compare with them. I then mentioned that they had been fished up by myself from the depths of the sea.

“How much that adds to their value!” said Lucy, in a low voice, but in her warm, sincere manner.

“That was getting them cheap, was it not, Miss Wallingford?” inquired Emily, with an emphasis I disliked.

“Very; though I agree with Lucy, it makes them so much the more valuable.”

“If Miss Merton will forget my charge of treason, and condescend to put on the necklace, you will all see it to much greater advantage than at present. If a fine necklace embellishes a fine woman, the advantage is quite reciprocal. I have seen my pearls once already on her neck, and know the effect.”

A wish of Grace's aided my application, and Emily placed the ornaments around her throat. The dazzling whiteness of her skin gave a lustre to the pearls that they certainly did not previously possess. One scarcely knew which to admire the most—the ornaments, or their setting.

“How very, very beautiful they are now!” cried Lucy, in generous admiration. “Oh! Miss Merton, pearls should ever be your ornaments.”

“Those pearls, you mean, Lucy,” put in Rupert, who was always extremely liberal with other people's means; “the necklace ought never to be removed.”

“Miss Merton knows their destination,” I said, gallantly, “and the terms of ownership.”

Emily slowly undid the clasp, placed the string before her eyes, and looked at it long and silently.

“And what is this destination, Miles? What these terms of ownership?” my sister asked.

“Of course he means them for you, dear,” Lucy remarked in haste. “For whom else can he intend such an ornament?”

“You are mistaken, Miss Hardinge. Grace must excuse me for being a little selfish this time, at least. I do not intend those pearls for Miss Wallingford, but for Mrs. Wallingford, should there ever be such a person.”

“Upon my word, such a double temptation, my boy, I Wonder Miss Merton ever had the fortitude to remove them from the enviable position they so lately occupied,” cried Rupert, glancing meaningly towards Emily, who returned the look with a slight smile.

“Of course, Miss Merton understood that my remark was ventured in pleasantry,” I said stiffly, “and not in presumption. It was decided, however, when in the Pacific, that these pearls ought to have that destination. It is true, Clawbonny is not the Pacific, and one may be pardoned for seeing things a little differently here, from what they appeared there. I have a few more pearls, however, very inferior in quality I confess, to those of the necklace; but, such as they are, I should esteem it a favour, ladies, if you would consent to divide them equally among you. They would make three very pretty rings, and as many breast-pins.”

I put into Grace's hands a little box containing all the pearls that had not been placed on the string. There were many fine ones among them, and some of very respectable size, though most were of the sort called seed. In the whole, there were several hundreds.

“We will not balk his generosity,” said Grace, smiling—“so, Miss Merton, we will separate the pearls into three parcels, and draw lots for them. Here are handsome ornaments among them!”

“They will have one value with you, at least, Grace, and quite likely with Lucy, while they might possibly possess another with Miss Merton. I fished up every one of those pearls with my own hands.”

“Certainly, that will give them value with both Lucy and me, dearest Miles, as would the simple fact that they are your gift—but what is to give them their especial value with Miss Merton?”

“They may serve to remind Miss Merton of some of her hair-breadth escapes, of the weeks passed on the island, and of scenes that, a few years hence, will probably possess the colours of a dream, in her recollection.”

“One pearl I will take, with this particular object”—said Emily, with more feeling than I had seen her manifest since she had got back into the world, “if Miss Wallingford will do me the favour to select it.”

“Let it be enough for a ring, at least,” Grace returned, in her own sweetest manner. “Half a dozen of the finest of these pearls, of which one shall be on Miles' account, and five on mine.”

“On those conditions, let it then be six. I have no occasion for pearls to remind me how much my father and my self owe to Captain Wallingford.”

“Come, Rupert,” added Grace; “you have a taste in these things, let us have your aid in the selection.” Rupert was by no means backward in complying, for he loved to be meddling in such matters.

“In the first place,” he said, “I shall at once direct that the number be increased to seven; this fine one in the centre, and three on each side, gradually diminishing in size. We must look to quality, and not to weight, for the six puisne judges, as we should call them in the courts. The Chief Justice will be a noble-looking fellow, and the associates ought to be of good quality to keep his honour's company.”

“Why do you not call your judges 'my lords,' as we do in England, Mr. Hardinge?” inquired Emily, in her prettiest manner.

“Why, sure enough! I wish with all my heart we did, and then a man would have something worth living for.”

“Rupert!” exclaimed Lucy, colouring—“you know it is because our government is republican, and that we have no nobles among us. Nor do you say exactly what you think; you would not be 'my lord,' if you could.”

“As I never shall be a 'my lord,' and I am afraid never a 'your honour'—There, Miss Merton—there are numbers two and three—observe how beautifully they are graduated as to size.”

“Well, 'your honour,'” added Grace, who began to be a little uneasy at the manner Rupert and Emily exhibited towards each other—“well, 'your honour,' what is to come next?”

“Numbers four and five, of course—and here they are, Miss Merton; as accurately diminished, as if done by hand. A beautiful ring it will make—I envy those who will be recalled to mind, by so charming an object.”

“You will now be one of those yourself, Mr. Hardinge”—observed Emily, with great tact—“for you are fully entitled to it, by the trouble you are giving yourself, and the taste and judgment you possess.”

Lucy looked petrified. She had so long accustomed herself to think of Grace as her future sister, that the open admiration expressed in Rupert's countenance, which was too manifest to escape any of us, first threw a glimmering of light on suspicions of the most painful nature. I had long seen that Lucy understood her brother's character better than any of us—much better, indeed, than his simple-minded father; and, as for myself, I was prepared to expect anything but consistency and principle in his conduct. Dearly as I prized Lucy, and by this time the slight competition that Emily Merton had presented to my fancy, had entirely given way to the dear creature's heart, and nature,—but, dearly as I prized Lucy, I would greatly have preferred that my sister should not marry her brother; and, so far from feeling resentment on account of his want of fidelity, I was rather disposed to rejoice at it. I could appreciate his want of merit, and his unfitness to be the husband of such a woman as Grace, even at my early age; but, alas! I could not appreciate the effects of his inconstancy on a heart like that of my sister. Could I have felt as easy on the subject of Mr. Andrew Drewett, and of my own precise position in society, I should have cared very little, just then, about Rupert, and his caprices.

The pearls for the ring were soon selected by Rupert, and approved of by Grace, after which I assumed the office of dividing the remainder myself. I drew a chair, took the box from Rupert, and set about the task.

“I shall make a faithful umpire, girls,” I observed, as pearl after pearl was laid, first on one spot, then on another—“for I feel no preference between you—Grace is as Lucy; Lucy is as Grace, with me.”

“That may be fortunate, Miss Hardinge, since it indicates no preference of a particular sort, that might require repressing,” said Emily, smiling significantly at Lucy. “When gentlemen treat young ladies as sisters, it is a subject of rejoicing. These sailors need severe lessons, to keep them within the rules of the land.”

Why this was said, I did not understand; but Rupert laughed at it, as if it were a capital thing. To mend the matter, he added, a little boisterously for him—

“You see, Miles, you had better have taken to the law—the ladies cannot appreciate the merits of you tars.”

“So it would seem,” I returned, a little drily, “after all Miss Merton has experienced and seen of the trade.”

Emily made no reply, but she regarded her pearls with a steadiness that showed she was thinking more of their effect than that of either her own speech or mine. I continued to divide the pearls, and soon had the work complete.

“What am I to do, now?”—I asked—“Will you draw lots, girls, or will you trust to my impartiality?”

“We will certainly confide in the last,” answered Grace. “The division is so very equitable that I do not well see how you can defraud either.”

“That being the case, this parcel is for you, Lucy; and, Grace, that is your's.”

Grace rose, put her arms affectionately around my neck, and gave me one of the hundred kisses that I had received, first and last, for presents of one sort and another. The deep attachment that beamed in her saint-like eyes, would of itself have repaid me for fifty such gifts. At the moment, I was almost on the point of throwing her the necklace in the bargain; but some faint fancies about Mrs. Miles Wallingford prevented me from so doing. As for Lucy, not a little to my surprise, she received the pearls, muttered a few unintelligible words, but did not even rise from her chair. Emily seemed to tire of this, so she caught up her gypsy, said the evening was getting to be delightful, and proposed a walk. Rupert and Grace cheerfully acquiesced, and the three soon left the place, Lucy preparing to follow, as soon as a maid could bring her hat, and I excusing myself on the score of business in my own room.

“Miles”—said Lucy, as I was about to enter the house, she herself standing on the edge of the piazza on the point of following the party, but holding towards me the little paper box in which I had placed her portion of the pearls.

“Do you wish me to put them away for you, Lucy?”

“No, Miles—not for me—but for yourself—for Grace—for Mrs. Miles Wallingford, if you prefer that.”

This was said without the slightest appearance of any other feeling than a gentle request. I was surprised, and scarce knew what to make of it; at first, I refused to take the box.

“I hope I have done nothing to merit this, Lucy?” I said, half-affronted, half-grieved.

“Remember, Miles,” the dear girl answered—“we are no longer children, but have reached an age when it is incumbent on us to respect appearances a little. These pearls must be worth a good deal of money, and I feel certain my father, when he came to think of it, would scarce approve of my receiving them.”

“And this from you, dear Lucy!”

“This from me, dear Miles,” returned the precious girl, tears glistening in her eyes, though she endeavoured to smile. “Now, take the box, and we will be just as good friends as ever.”

“Will you answer me one question, as frankly and as honestly as you used to answer all my questions?”

Lucy turned pale and she stood reflecting an instant before she spoke.

“I can answer no question before it is asked,” was at length her answer.

“Have you thought so little of my presents as to have thrown away the locket I gave you, before I sailed for the North-West coast?”

“No, Miles; I have kept the locket, and shall keep it as long as I live. It was a memorial of our childish regard for each other; and, in that sense, is very dear to me. You will let me keep the locket, I am sure!”

“If it were not you, Lucy Hardinge, whom I know to be truth itself, I might be disposed to doubt you, so many strange things exist, and so much caprice, especially in attachments, is manifested here, ashore!”

“You need doubt nothing I tell you, Miles—on no account would I deceive you.”

“That I believe—nay, I see, it is your present object to undeceive me. I do not doubt anything you tell me, Lucy. I wish I could see that locket, however; show it to me, if you have it on your person.”

Lucy made an eager movement, as if about to produce the locket; then she arrested the impetuous indication, while her cheeks fairly burned with the blushes that suffused them.

“I see how it is, Lucy—the thing is not to be found. It is mislaid, the Lord knows where, and you do not like to avow it.”

The locket, at that moment, lay as near the blessed creature's heart as it could be placed; and her confusion proceeded from the shame of letting that fact be known. This I could not see, and consequently did not know. A very small and further indication of feeling on my part, might have betrayed the circumstance; but pride prevented it, and I took the still extended box, I dare say in a somewhat dramatic manner. Lucy looked at me earnestly; I saw it was with difficulty that she kept from bursting into tears.

“You are not hurt, Miles?” she said.

“I should not be frank if I denied it. Even Emily Merton, you saw, consented to accept enough pearls for a ring.”

“I did perceive it; and yet, you remember, she felt the impropriety of receiving such large gifts from gentlemen. Miss Merton has gone through so much, so much in your company, Miles, that no wonder she is willing to retain some little memorial of it all, until—”

She hesitated; but Lucy chose not to finish the sentence. She had been pale; but her cheeks were now like the rose, again.

“When Rupert and I first went to sea, Lucy, you gave me your little treasure in gold—every farthing you had on earth, I fancy.”

“I am glad I did, Miles; for we were very young, then, and you had been so kind to me, I rejoice I had a little gratitude. But, we are now in situations,” she added, smiling so sweetly, as to render it difficult for me to refrain from catching her in my arms, and folding her to my heart; “that place both of us above the necessity of receiving aid of this sort.”

“I am glad to hear this—though I shall never part with the dear recollection of the half-joes.”

“Or I with that of the locket. We will retain these, then, as keepsakes. My dear Mrs. Bradfort, too, is very particular about Rupert or myself receiving favours of this sort, from any but herself. She has adopted us, in a manner; and I owe to her liberality, the means of making the figure I do. Apart from that, Miles, we are all as poor as we have ever been.”

I wished Rupert had half his sister's self-respect and pride of character. But he had not; for in spite of his kinswoman's prohibitions, he had not scrupled to spend nearly three years of the wages that accrued to me as third-mate of the Crisis. For the money I cared not a stiver; it was a very different thing as to the feeling.

As for Lucy, she hastened away, as soon as she had induced me to accept the box; and I had no choice but to place all the pearls together, and put them in Grace's room, as my sister had desired me to do with her own property before proceeding on her walk.

I determined I would converse confidentially with Grace, that very evening, about the state of affairs in general, and if possible, learn the worst concerning Mr. Andrew Drewett's pretensions. Shall I frankly own the truth? I was sorry that Mrs. Bradfort had made Lucy so independent; as it seemed to increase the chasm that I fancied was opening between us.