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Rh hands had obviously known no ruder task than their present employment. She did not look above eighteen, and yet the first bloom of youth was past; it was the complexion to which colour would naturally belong, and yet her cheek was pale, and the deep blue eyes had an expression of melancholy, fixed, but still not seeming to be their native expression.

Francis gazed for a moment on the exquisite profile, which was all he could see, and hesitated; it was an interview he had half resolved not to seek—but Lucy Aylmer looked more lovely than ever; and he sprang across the brook.

"Are you gathering moss for the linnet's cage?" asked he, aware that the bird had been his own gift.

Lucy started from her bending attitude—a flush of beautiful delight upon her face. In a moment that most beloved voice went to her heart; her head sunk on his shoulder; and for a few minutes she had no thought, no feeling, but the intense happiness of seeing him again. Could he, could any one, be insensible to tenderness so guileless and yet so deep? Perhaps, too, the very consciousness of how little it was deserved, quickened affection with remorse; and at that instant Francis felt the love which had been weakened by absence,