The House of Savoy is not attractive by reason of its faultless profile;
but there are persons of almost matchless grace who would exchange their
beauty for its blood. In her very early days, I have no doubt. Lucy Rowe
would have given her sweet blue eyes, her pouting lips, and pretty head
(just enough to fold lovingly between the palms of a man's hand), for
the square jaw and high cheek-bone of the Whytes. She felt very humble
when she contemplated the grandeur of her aunt's family, and very
grateful to her aunt who had stooped so far as to give her shelter when
she was left alone in the world. She kept the accounts, ran errands,
looked after the house linen, and made herself agreeable to the
boarders' children; but all this was the very least she could do to
express her humble thankfulness to the great lady-relative who had
befriended her, after having been good enough to commit the sacrifice of
marrying her uncle Joshua.

Lucy sat many hours alone in the business parlour--an apartment not
decorated with the distinct view of imparting cheerfulness to the human
temperament. The mantelpiece was covered with files of bills. There were
rows of numbered keys against the wall. Mrs. Rowe's old desk--_style
Empire_ she said, when any visitor noticed the handsome ruin--stood in a
corner by the window, covered with account books, prospectuses and cards
of the establishment, and heaps of old newspapers. Another corner showed
heaps of folded linen, parcels left for boarders, umbrellas and sticks,
which had been forgotten by old customers (Mrs. Rowe called them
clients), and aunt's walking-boots. One corner was Lucy's, which she
occupied in conjunction with a little table, at which, from seven in the
morning until bedtime, she worked with pen or needle (it was provoking
she could not learn to ply both at one time), when she was not running
about the house, or nursing a boarder's baby. On the rare evenings when
her aunt could not find work of any description for her, Lucy was