Poor Lucy could not be said to have awoke to a morning of despair and anguish, because she had not slept at all the night before.  Having got up and dressed herself, by the aid of Alice, she leaned on her as far as the boudoir to which allusion has already been made.  On arriving there she sat down, and when her maid looked upon her countenance she became so much alarmed and distressed that she burst into tears.

“What, my darling mistress, is come over you?” she exclaimed.  “You have always spoken to me until this unhappy mornin’ Oh, you are fairly in despair now; and indeed is it any wonder?  I always thought, and hoped, and prayed that something might turn up to prevent this cursed marriage.  I see, I read, despair in your face.”

Lucy raised her large, languid eyes, and looked upon her, but did not speak.  She gave a ghastly smile, but that was all.

“Speak to me, dear Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed the poor girl, with a flood of tears.  “Oh, only speak to me, and let me hear your voice!”

Lucy beckoned her to sit beside her, and said, with difficulty, that she wished to wet her lips.  The girl knew by the few words she uttered that her voice was gone; and on looking more closely she saw that her lips were dry and parched.  In a few moments she got her a glass of water, a portion of which Lucy drank.

“Now,” said Alice, “that will relieve and refresh you; but oh, for God’s sake, spake to me, and tell me how you feel!  Miss Gourlay, darlin’, you are in despair!”

Lucy took her maid’s hand in hers, and after looking upon her with a smile resembling the first, replied, “No, Alice, I will not despair, but I feel that I will die.  No, I will not despair, Alice.  Short as the time is, God may interpose between me and misery—­between me and despair.  But if I am married to this man, Alice, my faith in virtue, in a good conscience, in truth, purity, and honor, my faith in Providence itself will be shaken; and then I will despair and die.”

“Oh, what do you mean, my darlin’ Miss Gourlay?” exclaimed her weeping maid.  “Surely you couldn’t think of having a hand in your own death?  Oh, merciful Father, see what they have brought you to!”

“Alice,” said she, “I have spoken wrongly:  the moment in which I uttered the last expression was a weak one.  No, I will never doubt or distrust Providence; and I may die, Alice, but I will never despair.”

“But why talk about death, miss, so much?”

“Because I feel it lurking in my heart.  My physical strength will break down under this woful calamity.  I am as weak as an infant, and all before me is dark—­in this world I mean—­but not, thank God, in the next.  Now I cannot speak much more, Alice.  Leave me to my silence and to my sorrow.”

The affectionate girl, utterly overcome, laid her head upon her bosom and wept, until Lucy was forced to soothe and comfort her as well as she could.  They then sat silent for a time, the maid, however, sobbing and sighing bitterly, whilst Lucy only uttered one word in an undertone, and as if altogether to herself, “Misery! misery!”