perplexed air. Augustus saw but too plainly that he fully entered into the awkwardness of his situation; so he said, with as much indifference as he could contrive to assume "I see you think I can be of no use, therefore I will say no more: only remember if—if any time you think-that-that" at "I understand you, quite," said the kind doctor, "and will certainly tell Miss Lennox, ah-I mean Mrs. Mandeville-as soon as I have an opportunity-of your kind offers, of your kind wishes, and so forth." Lucy was lonely indeed, for she had scarcely any intimate friend. She was too unlike most of her acquaintances to be easily understood by them. Mr. Mandeville's primitive way of living also had been so different from that of most persons of his fortune, that although he had been universally esteemed, he had not lived on very intimate terms with any one. "Lie down, and close thy wearied eyes in slumber- CHAPTER IX. GRIEF. ABOUT Six months after Mr. Mandeville's death, Lucy was sitting one evening at her husband's old oak escritoire. She was alone in that dark wainscoted room, but it was a fine summer evening, and the last slanting rays of the setting sun shone through the narrow casements, and illumined her slender figure. She was very thin and pale, yet, perhaps, more lovely than ever, for there was an expression of suffering in the quiver of her beau tiful lips, and anxiety in her violet eyes, that was very touching. She was dressed in deep mourning, and according to the fashion of that day, all her hair was concealed under the close-fitting white cap; but this, though so trying to many, served to enhance the transparent whiteness of her complexion, and to increase the beauty of her dark pencilled eyebrow. As she leant her head on her hand, and looked down upon the Bible which lay open before her, her long dark eye-lashes overshadowed her cheek, and she occasionally brushed away the tears, if they prevented her reading the Bible, although otherwise they ran unheeded down her cheeks. Mrs. Flamborough had remained with Lucy during the first fortnight after Mr. Mandeville's death, and had been of infinite use in saving her from the pain of entering into the sad details of business attending such an event. She was a kind-hearted old lady, but without the tact, or keen perceptions, requisite to render her, in a more intimate way, a comfort to a person, who, like Lucy, was suffering from a most complicated grief: and her wellmeaning condolence, and the praise she was constantly lavishing on Lucy, for having been such an exemplary wife, sometimes added considerably to the widow's sorrow. It was humiliating to her to receive praises she felt unconscious of deserving; and ever since her husband's death, her sensitive conscience of course exaggerated her faults, and her want of affection for him. And she thought hers was a greater grief than any one could comprehend, than even Harriet, for she had never entered into her real feelings about Augustus. At times she derived a sort of wild transi |