“My poor boy! my poor dear Herbert,” she murmured at length, as she released her hold.  “Darling, I can never forget that you might have been my daughter.  But there—­I will leave you.  Lucy occupies her old rooms, and yonder is her door; you know the way.”

“But come in with me, dear Mrs. Carrington,” urged Elsie, the tears shining in her eyes.

“No, dear, not just yet.  Lucy would prefer to see you quite alone at first, I know.”  And she glided away in the opposite direction.

A soft, cooing sound came to Elsie’s ear, mingled with fondling words, in a negro voice, as she stood an instant waiting admittance.  Lucy, a good deal paler and thinner than the Lucy of old, lay back in an easy chair, languidly turning the leaves of a new magazine.

“Open the door, mammy,” she said, “I thought I heard a rap.”  Then at sight of Elsie, the magazine was hastily tossed aside, and with a cry of joy, “Oh, you darling!  I thought I’d never see you again,” she sprang forward, caught her friend in a close embrace, and wept upon her neck.

Elsie soothed her with caresses and words of endearment, and presently she calmed down, made her friend take a seat, and sinking back into her own, wiped away the tears still welling up in her eyes, and with a little hysterical laugh said, “Please don’t look so concerned, or think I’m unhappy with my dear old Phil, or going to die, or any such nonsense:  it’s just my nerves; hateful, torturing things!  I wish I’d never found out I had any.”

“You poor dear, I’m so sorry for your lost health,” said Elsie, exchanging her chair for a low ottoman at Lucy’s feet, and taking the small thin hands in hers, stroking and patting them caressingly; “I know nerves won’t be reasoned with, and that tears are often a great relief.”

“And I’ve everything to make me happy,” sobbed Lucy—­“the best husband in the world, and the darlingest of babies, to say nothing of mamma and papa, and the rest, and really almost everything one could desire.”

“Oh, the baby, yes!” cried Elsie, turning towards it with eager interest; “the sweet, pretty darling.  May I take him a moment, Lucy?”

“Certainly, if he’s not too heavy—­bring him here, mammy.  I remember your father would not allow you to lift or carry little Horace.”

“Ah, but that was years ago!  Ah, how lovely he is!” as the babe accepted her mute invitation to come to her.  “You are rich indeed, with this treasure added to all your others.  And you and your Phil don’t quarrel yet?”

“No indeed! not the first cross word yet.  Mamma calls us her turtle-doves:  says we’re always billing and cooing.  Ah, Elsie, how beautiful you are!  I’ve always thought you just as lovely as possible, yet there’s an added something—­I can’t divine what—­that increases even your peerless attractions.”

“O Lucy, Lucy, still a flatterer!” laughed her friend.

“Yet you’ve come back to us single,” Lucy went on, ignoring the interruption, “though we all know you had ever so many good offers.  Pray, do you intend to remain single all your days?”