force you to love me, whether you will or no.  We can not alter things; can not change the courses of the stars; can not force nature to our purposes in the stubborn heart or the wilful fancy:  and the wise method is to accommodate ourselves to the inevitable, and see if we can not extract an odor from the breeze no matter whence it blows.  Now, I am an only child, Lucy.  I have neither brother nor sister, and want a friend, and need a companion, one whom I can love—­”

“You will have—­have—­your husband.”

“Yes, Lucy, and as a husband!  But I am not content.  I must have you, also, Lucy.”

“Oh, no, no!  I can not—­can not!”

“You must!  I can not and will not go without you.  Hear me.  You have mortified poor Ralph very much.  He swore to your uncle, in his dying moments—­an awful moment—­that you should be his sister—­that you should enjoy his protection.  His own desires—­mine—­my father’s—­all concur to make us resolute that Ralph shall keep his oath!  And he must! and you must consent to an arrangement upon which we have set our hearts.”

“To live with him—­to see him daily!” murmured the suffering girl.

“Ay, Lucy,” answered the other boldly; “and to love him, and honor him, and sympathize with him in his needs, as a true, devoted woman and sister, so long as he shall prove worthy in your eyes and mine.  I know that I am asking of you, Lucy, what I would ask of no ordinary woman.  If I held you to be an ordinary woman, to whom we simply owe a debt of gratitude, I should never dream to offer such an argument.  But it is because you do love him, that I wish you to abide with us; your love hallowed by its own fires, and purifying itself, as it will, by the exercise of your mind upon it.”

The cheeks of Lucy flushed suddenly, but she said nothing.  Edith stooped to her, and kissed her fondly; Then she spoke again, so tenderly, so gently, with such judicious pleading—­appealing equally to the exquisite instincts of the loving woman and the thoughtful mind—­that the suffering girl was touched.

But she struggled long.  She was unwilling to be won.  She was vexed that she was so weak:  she was so weary of all struggle, and she needed sympathy and love so much!

How many various influences had Edith to combat! how many were there working in her favor!  What a conflict was it all in the poor heart of the sorrowful and loving Lucy!

Edith was a skilful physician for the heart—­skilful beyond her years.

Love was the great want of Lucy.

Edith soon persuaded her that she knew how to supply it.  She was so solicitous, so watchful, so tender, so—­

Suddenly the eyes of Lucy gushed with a volume of tears, and she buried her face in Edith’s bosom; and she wept—­how passionately!—­the sobbings of an infant succeeding to the more wild emotions of the soul, and placing her, like a docile and exhausted child, at the entire control of her companion, even as if she had been a mother.