"Why! because my happiness depends upon it; because it behooves me to know the very truth. It has come to this, that I love you with my whole heart, and I must know how your heart stands toward me."
She had now again risen from the sofa, and was looking steadily in his face.
"Lord Lufton," she said, "I can not love you," and as she spoke she did put her hand, as he had desired, upon her heart.
"Then God help me, for I am very wretched. Good-by, Lucy," and he stretched out his hand to her.
"Good-by, my lord. Do not be angry with me."
"No, no, no!" and, without farther speech, he left the room and the house, and hurried home. It was hardly surprising that he should that evening tell his mother that Griselda Grantly would be a companion sufficiently good for his sister. He wanted no such companion.
And when he was well gone—absolutely out of sight from the window—Lucy walked steadily up to her room, locked the door, and then threw herself on the bed. Why—oh! why had she told such a falsehood? Could any thing justify her in a lie? Was it not a lie, knowing as she did that she loved him with all her loving heart?
But then his mother! and the sneers of the world, which would have declared that she had set her trap, and caught the foolish young lord! Her pride would not have submitted to that. Strong as her love was, yet her pride was perhaps stronger—stronger, at any rate, during that interview.
But how was she to forgive herself the falsehood she had told?
It was grievous to think of the mischief and danger into which Griselda Grantly was brought by the worldliness of her mother in those few weeks previous to Lady Lufton's arrival in town—very grievous, at least, to her ladyship, as from time to time she heard of what was done in London. Lady Hartletop's was not the only objectionable house at which Griselda was allowed to reap fresh fashionable lau-
