Lucy.  “Pay the creature, and nevermore employ him.”

Kenealy.  “Can’t.  Haven’t got the money.  Uncle won’t daie.  The begaa knows I can’t pay him, that is the reason why he duns.”

Lucy.  “He knows it? then what business has he to annoy you thus?  Take my advice.  Return no reply.  That is not courteous.  But when the sole motive of an application is impertinence, silent contempt is the course best befitting your dignity.”

Kenealy (twirling his mustache).  “Dem the fellaa.  Shan’t take any notice of him.”

Mrs. Bazalgette (to Lucy in passing).  “Do you think we are all fools?”

Ibi omnis effusus amor; for La Bazalgette undeceived her ally and Mr. Hardie, and the screw was put harder still on poor Lucy.  She was no longer treated like an equal, but made for the first time to feel that her uncle and aunt were her elders and superiors, and, that she was in revolt.  All external signs of affection were withdrawn, and this was like docking a strawberry of its water.  A young girl may have flashes of spirit, heroism even, but her mind is never steel from top to toe; it is sure to be wax in more places than one.

“Nobody loves me now that poor Mr. Dodd is gone,” sighed Lucy.  “Nobody ever will love me unless I consent to sacrifice myself.  Well, why not?  I shall never love any gentleman as others of my sex can love.  I will go and see Mrs. Wilson.”

So she ordered out her captain, and rode to Mrs. Wilson, and made her captain hold her pony while she went in.  Mrs. Wilson received her with a tenor scream of delight that revived Lucy’s heart to hear, and then it was nothing but one broad gush of hilarity and cordiality—­showed her the house, showed her the cows, showed her the parlor at last, and made her sit down.

“Come, set ye down, set ye down, and let me have a downright good look at ye.  It is not often I clap eyes on ye, or on anything like ye, for that matter.  Aren’t ye well, my dear?”

“Oh yes.”

“Are ye sure?  Haven’t ye ailed anything since I saw ye up at the house?”

“No, dear nurse.”

“Then you are in care.  Bless you, it is not the same face—­to a stranger, belike, but not to the one that suckled you.  Why, there is next door to a wrinkle on your pretty brow, and a little hollow under your eye, and your face is drawn like, and not half the color.  You are in trouble or grief of some sort, Miss Lucy; and—­who knows?—­mayhap you be come to tell it your poor old nurse.  You might go to a worse part.  Ay! what touches you will touch me, my nursling dear, all one as if it was your own mother.”

“Ah! you love me,” cried Lucy; “I don’t know why you love me so; I have not deserved it of you, as I have of others that look coldly on me.  Yes, you love me, or you would not read my face like this.  It is true, I am a little—­Oh, nurse, I am unhappy;” and in a moment she was weeping and sobbing in Mrs. Wilson’s arms.