“We have received interesting news this morning, my dear Arthur,” Mrs. Hamilton said, as her husband entered the parlour, where she and Ellen were seated.  “Lucy Harcourt is returning to England, and has requested us to look out for a little cottage for her near Oakwood.  The severe illness, and finally the death of her cousin, Mr. Seymour, has been the cause of my not hearing from her so long.  Poor fellow, he has been for so many years such a sad sufferer, that a peaceful death must indeed be a blessed release.”

“It was a peaceful death, Lucy writes, mournfully but resignedly; she says she cannot be sufficiently thankful that he was spared long enough to see his daughters would both be happy under her charge.  That she had gained their young affections, and that, as far as mortal eye could see, by leaving them entirely under her guardianship and maternal care, he had provided for their happiness.  He said this almost with his last breath; and poor Lucy says that, among her many consolations in this trying time, this assertion was not one of the least precious to her heart.”

“No doubt it was.  To be the friend and adopted mother of his children must be one of the many blessings created for herself by her noble conduct in youth.  I am glad now my prophecy was not verified, and that she never became his wife.”

“Did you ever think she would, uncle?” asked Ellen, surprised.

“I fancied Seymour must have discovered her affection, and then admiration on his part would have done the rest.  It is, I own, much better as it is; his children will love her more, regarding her in the light of his sister and their aunt, than had she become their stepmother.  But why did you seem so surprised at my prophecy, Nelly?  Was there anything very impossible in their union?”

“Not impossible; but I do not think it likely Miss Harcourt would have betrayed her affection, at the very time when she was endeavouring to soothe her cousin for the loss of a beloved wife.  She was much more likely to conceal it, even more effectually than she had ever done before.  Nor do I think it probable Mr. Seymour, accustomed from his very earliest years to regard her as a sister, could ever succeed in looking on her in any other light.”

“You seem well skilled in the history of the human heart, my little Ellen,” said her uncle, smiling.  “Do you think it then quite impossible for cousins to love?”

Ellen bent lower over her embroidery-frame, for she felt a tell-tale flush was rising to her cheek, and without looking up, replied calmly—­

“Miss Harcourt is a proof that such love can and does exist—­more often, perhaps, in a woman’s heart.  In a man seldom, unless educated and living entirely apart from each other.”

“I think you are right, Ellen,” said her aunt.  “I never thought, with your uncle, that Lucy would become Mr. Seymour’s wife.”

“Had I prophesied such a thing, uncle, what would you have called me?” said Ellen, looking up archly from her frame, for the momentary flush had gone.