“I have seen him,” Lucy replied—­the tremour in her voice showing how hard she found it to avoid melting in tears, “and rather like him.  I believe he was a favourite with mamma Wallingford,” so Lucy was accustomed to call my mother, “and that ought to be a high recommendation with us, Miles.”

“I am disposed to like him, and shall endeavour to keep up more intercourse with him than I have hitherto done.  It is as we begin to find ourselves alone in the world, Lucy, that we first feel the necessity of counting blood and kin, and of looking around us for support.”

“Alone you are not, Miles, and never can be while I and my dear father live.  We are certainly nearer to you than any that now remain among your blood relatives!  You can neither suffer nor be happy without our partaking in the feelings.”

This was not said without an effort; that much I could detect; yet it was said firmly, and in a way that left no doubt of its entire sincerity.  I even wished there had been less of nature and more of hesitation in the dear girl’s manner while she was endeavouring to assure me of the sympathy she felt in my happiness or unhappiness.  But the waywardness of a passion as tormenting, and yet as delightful as love, seldom leaves us just or reasonable.

Lucy and I then talked of the approaching ceremony.  Each of us was grave and sorrowful, but neither indulged in any outward signs of grief.  We knew the last sad offices were to be performed, and had braced ourselves to the discharge of this melancholy duty.  It was not customary with the females of purely New York families of the class of the Hardinges, to be present at the performance of the funeral rites; but Lucy told me she intended to be in the little church, and to share in as much of the religious offices as were performed within the building.  In a population as mixed as ours has become, it is not easy to say what is and what is not now a national or state usage, on such an occasion; but I knew this was going farther than was usual for one of Lucy’s habits and opinions, and I expressed a little surprise at her determination.

“Were it at any other funeral, I would not be present, Miles,” she said, the tremour of her voice sensibly increasing; “but I cannot divest myself of the idea that the spirit of Grace will be hovering near; that the presence of her more than sister will be acceptable.  Whatever the Providence of God may have ordered for the dear departed, I know it will be grateful to myself to join in the prayers of the church—­besides, I am not altogether without the womanly feeling of wishing to watch over the form of Grace while it remains above ground.  And now, Miles, brother, friend, Grace’s brother, or by whatever endearing term I may address you,” added Lucy, rising, coming to my side of the table, and taking my hand.  “I have one thing to say that I alone can say, for it would never suggest itself as necessary to my dear father.”