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Mrs. Lovett, in point of fortune and station, was on an equal footing with her neighbour. Her husband was a prosperous baker, with seven sons, healthy, noisy, good-humoured boys, our friend Charles, now a lad of seventeen, being the oldest. A person suddenly transported from the depths of the winter of an arctic region to a land of soft airs, verdure, fruits, and flowers, could not have felt a greater change than did Lucy in her translation from her dreary existence at Dame Simson's to the atmosphere of affection and kindness that Mrs. Lovett breathed around her. These two women possessed the same external means; the cupidity and selfishness of the one made a moral waste around her—the good sense, affectionateness, and sweet temper of the other operated like those blessed fountains well called "diamonds of the desert," that minister to the life and beauty or everything within their reach.

If Mrs. Lovett had some defects which impaired the effect of her virtues, or rather diminished the amount of good she might have produced, we do not care to analyse them. It seems unreasonable to demand an exact arrangement of rich, spontaneous productions. We therefore prefer giving a glimpse of her home; a day there might stand for