mistress and pupil—for it is a wearisome task to teach where there is little inclination and less understanding.
But an unexpected auxiliary appeared on the scene. We have before alluded to Charles Aubyn, the young clergyman of their village. One visit led to another, and soon every evening saw him a privileged visitor in their apartment, to Lucy's increasing pleasure, and Francesca'a great relief.
The reason why so many fallacious opinions have passed into proverbs is owing to that carelessness which makes the individual instance the general rule. Of all feelings, love is the most modified by character; like the chameleon, it is indeed coloured by the air which it breathes. To half the world its depth is unknown, and its intensity unfelt. To such the expression of its wild passion, its fateful influence, its unalterable faith, are but mysteries, or even mockeries; while, again, to those who hold such true and fervent creed, the heartless change, the utter forgetfulness, the sudden transfer of life's deepest and dearest emotion, is equally absurd and incomprehensible.
Francesca could not at first believe her eyes when she saw the tremulous rose mount into Lucy's cheek at the sound of Charles Aubyn's approach. Scarcely could she credit that the absence and
