it be possible, on the other, that Lady Gourlay would withhold her resentment from the daughter of the man who had made her childless?  But, no; her generous heart could not for a moment admit the former possibility.  She reasoned not from what she had felt at his hands, but as a daughter, who, because she abhorred the crime imputed to him, could not suppose him capable of committing it.  His ambition was all for herself.  Neither, she felt, would Lady Gourlay, even allowing for the full extent of her suspicions, confound the innocent daughter with the offending parent.  Then her reputation for meekness, benevolence, patience, charity, and all those virtues which, without effort, so strongly impress themselves upon the general spirit of social life, spoke with a thousand tongues on her behalf.  Yes, she was glad she came; she felt the spirit of a virtuous relationship strongly in her heart; and in that heart she thanked the amiable Mrs. Mainwaring for the advice she had given her.

A gentle and diffident tap at the door interrupted the course of her reflections; and the next moment, a lady, grave, but elegant in appearance, entered.  She courtesied with peculiar grace, and an air of the sweetest benignity, to Lucy, who returned it with one in which humility, reverence, and dignity, were equally blended.  Neither, indeed, could for a single moment doubt that an accomplished and educated gentlewoman stood before her.  Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty to speak first, and account for a visit so unexpected.

“I know not,” she said, “as yet, how to measure the apology which I ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here.  My heart tells me that I have the honor of addressing that lady.”

“I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy woman.”

Lucy approached her, and said, “Do not reject me, madam; pardon me—­love me—­pity me;—­I am Lucy Gourlay.”

Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaiming, as she did it, in a voice of the deepest emotion, “My dear niece—­my child—­my daughter if you will;” and they wept long and affectionately on each other’s bosoms.

“You are the only living individual,” said Lucy, after some time, “whom I could ask to pity me; but I am not ashamed to solicit your sympathy.  Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy.  But this, I fear, is wrong; for why should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourself have been compelled to bear?  I fear it is selfish and ungenerous to do so.”

“No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or misery which we are forced, perhaps, for wise purposes, to bear, it is ordained, for purposes equally wise and beneficent, that every act of sympathy with another’s sorrow lessens our own.  Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will be permitted to do so, be a loving mother to you, and stand to my heart in relation to the child I have lost; or think that your own dear mother still survives in me.”