There was in the look which Lucy cast upon her when she had uttered these words a spirit of gentle but affectionate reproof; but she spoke it not.

“Give it to me, Alice,” she said; “but unlock it first; I feel that my hands are too feeble to do so.”

Alice unlocked the miniature, and Lucy then taking it from her, looked upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips with a calm emotion, in which grief and despair seemed to mingle, she exclaimed,

“Alas! mamma, how much do I now stand in need of your advice and consolation!  The shrine in which your affection and memory dwelt, and against whose troubled pulses your sweet and serene image lay, is now broken.  There, dearest mamma, you will find nothing in future but affliction and despair.  It has been said, that I have inherited your graces and your virtues, most beloved parent; and if so, alas! in how remote a degree, for who could equal you?  But how would it have wining your gentle and loving heart to know that I should have inherited your secret griefs and sufferings?  Yes, mamma, both are painted on that serene brow; for no art of the limner could conceal their mournful traces, nor remove the veil of sorrow which an unhappy destiny threw over your beauty.  There, in that clear and gentle eye, is still the image of your love and sympathy—­there is that smile so full of sweetness and suffering.  Alas, alas! how closely do we resemble each other in all things.  Sweet and blessed saint, if it be permitted, descend and let your spirit be with me—­to guide, to soothe, and to support me; your task will not be a long one, beloved parent.  From this day forth my only hope will be to join you.  Life has nothing now but solitude and sorrow.  There is no heart with which I can hold communion; for my grief, and the act of duty which occasions it, must be held sacred from all.”

She kissed the miniature once more, but without tears, and after a little, she made Alley place it where she had ever kept it—­next her heart.

“Alice,” said she, “I trust I will soon be with mamma.”

“My dear mistress,” replied Alice, “don’t spake so.  I hope there’s many a happy and pleasant day before you, in spite of all that has come and gone, yet.”

She turned upon the maid a look of incredulity so hopeless, that Alley felt both alarmed and depressed.

“You do not know what I suffer, Alice,” she replied, “but I know it.  This miniature of mamma I got painted unknown to—­unknown to—­” (here we need not say that she meant her father) “—­any one except mamma, the artist, and myself.  It has laid next my heart ever since; but since her death it has been the dearest thing to me on earth—­one only other object perhaps excepted.  Yes,” she added, with a deep sigh, “I hope I shall soon be with you, mamma, and then we shall never be separated any more!”

Alley regretted to perceive that her grief now had settled down into the most wasting and dangerous of all; for it was of that dry and silent kind which so soon consumes the lamp of life, and dries up the strength of those who unhappily fall under its malignant blight.