“My gracious, miss,” she exclaimed, “what has happened?  You look so disturbed!  Something, or somebody, has offended you.”

“I am disturbed, Alice,” she replied, “I am disturbed; come and lend me your arm; my knees are trembling so that I cannot walk without assistance; but must sit down for a moment.  Indeed, I feel that my strength is fast departing from me.  I scarcely know what I am thinking.  I am all confused, agitated, shocked.  Gracious heaven!  Come, my dear Alice, help your mistress; you, Alice, are the only friend I have left now.  Are you not my friend, Alice?”

She was sitting on a lounger as she spoke, and the poor affectionate girl, who loved her as she did her life, threw herself over, and leaning her head upon her mistress’s knees wept bitterly.

“Sit beside me, Alice,” said she; “whatever distance social distinctions may have placed between us, I feel that the truth and sincerity of those tears justify me in placing you near my heart.  Sit beside me, but compose yourself; and then you must assist me to bed.”

“They are killing you,” said Alley, still weeping.  “What devil can tempt them to act as they do?  As for me, miss, it’s breaking my heart, that I see what you are suffering, and can’t assist you.”

“But I have your love and sympathy, your fidelity, too, my dear Alice; and that now is all I believe the world has left me.”

“No, miss,” replied her maid, wiping her eyes, and striving to compose herself, “no, indeed; there is another—­another gentleman, I mean—­as well as myself, that feels deeply for your situation.”

Had Lucy’s spirit been such as they were wont to be, she could have enjoyed this little blunder of Alice’s; but now her heart, like some precious jewel that lies too deep in the bosom of the ocean for the sun’s strongest beams to reach, had sunk beneath the influence of either cheerfulness or mirth.

“There is indeed, miss,” continued Alice,

“And pray, Alice,” asked her mistress, “how do you know that?”

“Why, miss,” replied the girl, “I am told that of late he is looking very ill, too.  They say he has lost his spirits all to pieces, and seldom laughs—­the Lord save us!”

“They say!—­who say, Alice?”

“Why,” replied Alice, with a perceptible heightening of her color, “ahem! ahem! why, Dandy Dulcimer, miss.”

“And where have you seen him?  Dulcimer, I mean.  He, I suppose, who used occasionally to play upon the instrument of that name in the Hall?”

“Yes, ma’am, the same.  Don’t you remember how beautiful he played it the night we came in the coach to town?”

“I remember there was something very-unpleasant between him and a farmer, I believe; but I did not pay much attention to it at the time.”

“I am sorry for that, miss, for I declare to goodness, Dandy’s dulcimer isn’t such an unpleasant instrument as you think; and, besides, he has got a new one the other day that plays lovely.”