which, from seven in the morning until bedtime, she worked with pen or needle (it was provoking she could not learn to ply both at one time), when she was not running about the house, or nursing a boarder’s baby.  On the rare evenings when her aunt could not find work of any description for her, Lucy was requested to take the Bible from the shelf, and read a chapter aloud.  When her aunt went to sleep during the reading Lucy continued steadily, knowing that the scion of the illustrious house of Whyte would wake directly her voice ceased.

Occasionally the clergyman would drop in; whereupon Lucy would hear much improving discourse between her aunt and the reverend gentleman.  Mrs. Rowe poured all her griefs into the ear of the Reverend Horace Mohun—­griefs which she kept from the world.  Before Lucy she spoke freely—­being accustomed to regard the timid girl as a child still, whose mind could not gather the threads of her narrative.  Lucy sate—­not listening, but hearing snatches of the mournful circumstances with which Mrs. Rowe troubled Mr. Mohun.  The reverend gentleman was a patient and an attentive listener; and drank his tea and ate his toast (it was only at Mrs. Rowe’s he said he could ever get a good English round of toast), shaking his head, or offering a consoling “dear, dear me!” as the droning proceeded.  Lucy was at work.  If Mrs. Rowe caught her pausing she would break her story to say—­“If you have finished 42 account, put down two candles to 10, and a foot-bath to 14.”  And Lucy—­who seldom paused because she had finished her task, as her aunt knew well—­bent over the table again, and was as content as she was weary.  When she went up to her bedroom (which the cook had peremptorily refused to occupy) she prayed for good Aunt Rowe every night of her dull life, before she lay upon her truckle bed to rest for the morrow’s cheerful round of hard duties.  Was it likely that a child put thus into the harness of life, would pass the talk of her aunt with Mr. Mohun as the idle wind?

The mysteries which lay in the talk, and perplexed her, were cleared up in due time.

CHAPTER II.

HE’S HERE AGAIN!

  “He has but stumbled in the path
   Thou hast in weakness trod.”—­A.  A. PROCTER.

“He’s here again, Mum.”

He was there at the servant’s entrance to the highly respectable boarding-house in the Rue Millevoye.  It was five in the morning—­a winter’s morning.

Mrs. Rowe hastened from her room, behind the business parlour, in her dressing-gown, her teeth chattering, and her eyes flashing the fire of hate.  The boarders sleeping upstairs would not have known the godly landlady, who glided about the house by day, rubbing her hands and hoping every soul under her roof was comfortable—­or would at once complain to her, who lived only to make people comfortable—­bills being but mere accidental accessories, fortuitously concurrent with the arrival of a cab and the descent of luggage.