Lucy obeyed her with all the simplicity of a child, and turned round so as to place herself in the position required by the aunt; but whilst she did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifully and fast over her timid but sparkling countenance?

“I do not wonder, my dear girl, that public rumor has borne its ample testimony to your beauty.  I have never seen either it or your figure surpassed; but it is here, my dear,” she added, placing her hand upon her heart, “where the jewel that gives value to so fair a casket lies.”

“How happy I am, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, anxious to change the subject, since I know you.  The very consciousness of it is a consolation.”

“And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be happy.  When the dispensations ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings.”

The old footman now entered, saying:  “Here is a note, my lady,” and he presented one, “which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your ladyship’s return.”

Lady Gourlay took the note, saying:  “Will you excuse me, my dear niece?—­this, I believe, is on a subject that is not merely near to, but in the innermost recesses of my heart.”

Lucy now took that opportunity on her part of contemplating the features of her aunt; but, as we have already described them elsewhere, it is unnecessary to do so here.  She was, however, much struck with their chaste but melancholy beauty; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and affliction, while they impair the complexion of the most lovely, very frequently communicate to it a charm so deep and touching, that in point of fact, the heart that suffers within is taught to speak in the mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they leave behind them as their traces.  As Lucy surveyed her aunt’s features, which had been moulded by calamity into an expression of settled sorrow—­an expression which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she was surprised to observe at first a singular degree of sweetness appear; next a mild serenity; and lastly, she saw that that serenity gradually kindled into a radiance that might, in the hands of a painter, have expressed the joy of the Virgin Mother on finding her lost Son in the Temple.  This, however, was again succeeded by a paleness, that for a moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears.  On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inquiry as to the cause of this extraordinary emotion, Lady Gourlay saw that her eyes at least were seeking, by the wonder they expressed, for the cause of it.

“May the name,” she exclaimed, “of the just and merciful God be praised forever!  Here, my darling, is a note, in which I am informed upon the best authority, that my child—­my boy, is yet alive—­and was seen but very recently.  Dear God of all goodness, is my weak and worn heart capable of bearing this returning tide of happiness!”

Nature, however, gave way; and after several struggles and throbbings, she sank into insensibility.  To ring for assistance, to apply all kinds of restoratives; and to tend her until she revived, and afterwards, were offices which Lucy discharged with equal promptitude and tenderness.