“May God bless you all your life, Mrs. Keane.”

It was Lucy, her great eyes shining with unspeakable love and tenderness.

“Never Mrs. Keane to you, Lucy, my pet,” she whispered back.  “Carrie always, and always.  Write to me.”

Then she was hurried out to the carriage, forgetting in the excitement of the moment that she possessed no address to give.  The door closed upon them, the coachman sprang to the box, and the next moment they were gone.  They had embarked together on the sea of life, and the voyage bade fair to be a happy and prosperous one.

“I don’t like weddings,” said Judge Keane discontentedly.  “They are miserable, heart-breaking things at the best.”

“Time was when you did not think so, judge,” said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye.—­“Eh, little one?”

It was Lucy whom the doctor addressed, and she answered timidly, “It is very sad to give away those we love, as you have done to-day, sir.”

“Wait till somebody wants to take you away, my lady,” laughed the judge.  “There’ll be an earthquake at Thankful Rest.”

“I never heard any one speak as you do, Judge Keane,” said Lucy, with a dignity which dumfoundered Tom; and she moved away and sat down by Mrs. Goldthwaite, and began to talk to her about Carrie.

“What makes you look so sober, Tom Hurst?” queried Minnie Keane’s voice at his elbow a few minutes later.

“Shall I tell you, Minnie?”

“You must,” was the calm reply.

“It seems to me, then,” he said very slowly, “that Lucy is growing up, and I don’t like it.  Do you?”

“I don’t mind.  Everybody grows up and marries, and goes to Europe, and dies after a bit; that’s about what life amounts to—­not much, is it?”

Tom laughed, he couldn’t help it; but after a bit he answered gravely, “I am afraid to grow up myself, Minnie.”

“Why?”

“Because a man has so much responsibility, so much to do for God:  I don’t think it will be very easy.”

“Oh, I do!” answered Minnie.  “Just do all you can, with all your might; that’s what mamma says, and it’s the easiest way.”

“So it is,” said Tom.  “I shan’t forget that, Minnie.”

And neither he did.

XVI.

FIVE YEARS AFTER.

Again it was sweet spring-time at Thankful Rest.  The garden was gay with tender leaves and blossoms, and the orchard white with bloom.  There the birds made sweet melody as of yore; and, as of yore, the sunny river brawled and whispered and played as it hurried through the meadow to the sea.

At five o’clock in the afternoon Aunt Hepsy was in the kitchen, busy as usual; her hands knew no idleness.  Two teacups and a plate of cake stood on the table, the remnants of the early tea she and Lucy had taken a little while before.  Presently a light step sounded in the lobby, and Lucy came in dressed for walking.  Five years make a great change; for she had grown from a slight, diminutive girl, to a tall, lithe, graceful young lady, just on the verge of womanhood.