pation such as this is brought to a close? No; when the husband walks back from the altar, he has already swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him—or perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest hardly a crust remain, or perhaps not a crust.
But, before we finish, let us go back for one moment to the dainties—to the time before the beef and pudding were served—while Lucy was still at the Parsonage, and Lord Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes' conversation, Mrs. Robarts had left the room—as not unfrequently on such occasions was her wont. Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at her; then he got up abruptly, and, standing before her, thus questioned her:
"Lucy," said he.
"Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this morning?"
"Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in this room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should love me, why did you say that it was impossible?"
Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. Yes, he was standing on the exact spot where he had stood before. No spot in all the world was more frequently clear before her own eyes.
"Do you remember that day, Lucy?" he said again.
"Yes, I remember it," she said.
"Why did you say it was impossible?"
"Did I say impossible?"
She knew that she had said so. She remembered how she had waited till he had gone, and that then, going to her own room, she had reproached herself with the cowardice of the falsehood. She had lied to him then; and now—how was she punished for it!
"Well, I suppose it was possible," she said.
"But why did you say so when you knew it would make me so miserable?"
"Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough. I thought I had never seen you look better satisfied."
"Lucy!"
