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all their clamorous necessities, her husband had retained this memorial of his mother—how, amid the ruin of every just principle, and every other pure and holy sentiment, that affection, which is truly our first love and our last, had clung to him. Neither did she communicate to any one but Lucy, the sharer of all her thoughts, the weakness that had assaulted her noble mind. "For a little while I did feel, Lucy," she said, "as if I could not part with that watch—it is the last relic of our better days, and a secret wish has lurked with me to have something to show the children in future, as a proof of what their grandparents were. So our little pride and vanity will stick to us, Lucy! So inconsistent are our foolish habits with our principles. It has been my desire to conform your minds to your situation, to make you realize that all honour and happiness was in your own souls, and not in anything outward; and I might have spoiled it all by turning your eyes back to what your parents were, instead of directing them forward to what you should be!"

But we are lingering with Lucy's mother when our business is with far less interesting people. "Mourning is very expensive," said Mrs. Simson, when Lucy returned to her work in her usual dress; "I conclude your mother don't feel as if she could put you all fully into it at once?"

"No, ma'am."

"That's well—I like to see folks prudent, and to help 'em to be so. I've got a bombasin that I had for my best when mother died, and it was made over for Aurely when the baby died. I calculate