basin from the surgeon to bathe Mrs Damerel's temples herself, her
hand shook not, and she performed the kindly office as neatly as if
no misfortune had befallen her. When she went to the door to entreat
the neighbours to stand away from it, that sufficient air might be
admitted into the room, her voice, though rather deeper in tone than
usual, was calm and firm. Had she not occasionally pressed her hand
tightly against her brow, as if to cool its burning agony, you would
have thought that she suffered no further anxiety than that which is
usually felt whilst attending the sick.

It was, however, when she was left alone with the exhausted, almost
senseless mother, that the tide of grief took its full course. Lucy
wept like one distraught. Through the deep, black future which lay
before her, she could see no gleam of hope or sunlight. She unjustly
upbraided herself for having, however innocently, given Luke cause of
suspicion. The weight of blame which she took to herself was almost
insupportable. 'I have been his ruin!' she exclaimed, burying her
face in his mother's bosom.

When the old dame had strength to speak, she whispered Lucy not to
give way, but to bear up against it. The past, she wisely said, was
incurable; 'We must keep our senses whole for the future. While we
keep heart, there is no fear of our seeing him again, yet.'

The story reached Farmer Modbury as he was sitting down to breakfast.
He was deeply shocked even when he? knew no more than that Luke had
enlisted; but when, on visiting the cottage, the whole truth was
explained to him by Lucy, he felt both grief and disappointment. He
was, however, determined not to abandon his suit as hopeless, and
returning home, wrote to her father (he was a widower), explaining