“I cannot touch that money.  It is not mine; it would be stealing, to take a penny of it.”

Grey saw the question troubled his Aunt Hannah, and so he said no more on the subject, but thought that when he was a man, and had means of his own, he would improve and beautify the old farm-house, which, though scrupulously neat and clean, was in its furnishing plain in the extreme.  Not a superfluous article, except what had been sent from Boston, had been bought since he could remember, and the carpet, and chairs, and curtains in the best room had been there ever since his father was a boy.  And still Grey loved the place better than Grey’s Park, where he was always a welcome guest, and where his Aunt Lucy petted him, if possible, more than did his Aunt Hannah.

And sweet Lucy Grey, in her trailing dress of rich, black silk, with ruffles of soft lace at her throat and wrists, and costly diamonds on her white fingers, made a picture perfectly harmonious with Grey’s natural taste and ideas of a lady.  She was lovely as are the pictures of Murillo’s Madonnas, and Grey, who knew her story, reverenced her as something saintly and pure above any woman he had ever known.  And here, perhaps, as well as elsewhere, we may very briefly tell her story, in order that the reader may better understand her character.

CHAPTER III.

Lucy.

She was five years older than her sister Geraldine, and between the two there had been a brother—­Robert, or Robin, as he was familiarly called—­a little blue-eyed, golden-haired boy, with a face always wreathed in smiles, and a mouth which seemed made to kiss and be kissed in return.  He was three years younger than Lucy, who, having been petted so long as the only child, looked somewhat askance at the brother who had come to interfere with her, and as he grew older, and developed that wonderful beauty and winning sweetness for which he was so remarkable, the demon of jealousy took possession of the little girl, who felt at times as if she hated him for the beauty she envied so much.

“Oh, I wish he was blind!” she once said, in anger, when his soft blue eyes had been extolled in her hearing and compared with her own, which were black as midnight and bright as the wintry stars.

And, as if in answer to her wish, an accident occurred not long after, which darkened forever the eyes which had caused her so much annoyance.  Just how it happened no one knew.  The two children had been playing in the dining-room, when a great crash was heard, and a wild cry, and Robin was found upon the floor screaming with agony, while near him lay a broken cup, which had contained a quantity of red pepper, which the housemaid had left upon the sideboard until ready to replenish the caster.  Lucy was crying, too, with pain, for the fiery powder was in her eyes, also.  But she had not received as much as Robin, who from that hour, never again saw the light of day.