restlessness which her companion betrayed when his daily visit was deferred could be felt on the comparative stranger's account. But when she saw them sit mutually contented by each other's side for hours, Lucy's soft blue eyes only raised to give one gentle smile, and then sink, half agitation, half timidity—and when, finally, by some process or other, Lucy usually contrived that, let their discourse begin on what subject it might, it regularly ended with some reference to Mr. Aubyn—she was obliged to yield to conviction, and to allow, what no romantic imagination likes to admit, that there may be, nay, actually is such a thing as second love in the world; and with a pardonable, because natural, inconsistency, she felt almost disappointed that Lucy had followed her own advice, and forgotten one so unworthy of her affection as Francis Evelyn. It took some time to abate the poetry of her disappointment, and to force from her the admission that Lucy was much more likely to be happy with her present lover—for such he was now acknowledged to be.
Charles Aubyn was one of those in whose composition the heart has a larger share than the head. With more talent; his native enthusiasm would have been a powerful influence; but it lacked
