that he would see some other whom he would prefer, and some day send
home word that he was married; neither was it likely that he would
ever come home alive from the Indies. These poisoned arrows, which
were meant as comfort, glanced harmlessly from Lucy, who was
invulnerably shielded by trusting love and hope. She would answer:
'very likely,' or 'it may be,' or 'there is no knowing what may
happen in this world of trouble,' and still rattle about her
lace-pegs over the pillow on which it was made with the quickness of
magic. Amongst her visitors, however, there were two who invariably
offered her better consolation; these were Larkin and his sister. Tom
'stuck up,' as he expressed it, for his friend Luke, and always put
the blame of the enlistment on the wiles and arts of the
recruiting-sergeant, who regularly entrapped him into the deed. Many
a happy winter evening was spent in that humble cottage by Lucy and
her friends. Luke was never forgotten in their conversations; for
there was the lace which was being unweariedly made for his release
to remind them of him. When Modbury made his appearance (and this was
very often) the subject was of course dropped.

A year passed away. Neither Lucy nor Modbury had made much progress
in their several aims; scarcely a tithe of the requisite sum for
Luke's discharge had been saved; neither could Modbury perceive that
his suit advanced. Lucy's conduct sorely perplexed him. She always
seemed delighted when he came in, and received him with every mark of
cordiality; but whenever he dropped the slightest plea in his own
behalf, tears would come into her eyes, and she entreated him to
desist. He began to remark also, that besides the presence of the old
dame, which was surely a sufficient safeguard against any warmth of
manner he might be betrayed into, Lucy always contrived to have Susan
Larkin with her. Should she be absent, Lucy would be telling Modbury