tain tone of quiet command formerly unknown to her, characterised these measures, so daringly independent for one of her sex and age. The day arrived,—it was the anniversary of her last interview with Clifford. On entering the vessel, it was observed that she trembled violently, and that her face was as pale as death. A stranger, who had stood aloof wrapped in his cloak, darted forward to assist her,—that was the last which her discarded and weeping servants beheld of her from the pier where they stood to gaze.
Nothing more, in this country, was ever known of the fate of Lucy Brandon, except that to the distant relation who had purchased Warlock, an order for the sum he had paid, was enclosed and signed by her. No farther tidings by letter or by report transpired; and as her circle of acquaintances was narrow, and interest in her fate existed vividly in none, save a few humble breasts, conjecture was never keenly awakened, and soon cooled into forgetfulness. If it favoured, after the lapse of years, any one notion more than another, it was
