ed him when he found himself on the verge of speaking of love to the daughter of Sir William Ashton.
They now approached the hut of old Alice, which had of late been rendered more comfortable, and presented an appearance less picturesque, perhaps, but far neater than before. The old woman was on her accustomed seat beneath the weeping birch, basking, with the listless enjoyment of age and infirmity, in the beams of the autumn sun. At the arrival of her visitors she turned her head towards them. "I hear your step. Miss Ashton," she said, "but the gentleman who attends you is not my lord, your father."
"And why should you think so, Alice?" said Lucy; "or how is it possible for you to judge so accurately by the sound of a step, on this firm earth, and in the open air?"
"My hearing, my child, has been sharpened by my blindness, and I can now judge
