It was surprising to see how Lucy bore up under the misfortune.  She was not a Whyte, but she had lived beside one.  Youth is so elastic!  Lucy, albeit she had the Rowe lip and nose, and, worse than all, the Rowe hair (a warm auburn, which Mrs. Rowe described in one syllable, with a picturesque and popular comparison comprehended in two), was daring enough to meet the daylight, without showing the smallest signs of giving way to melancholy.  When new comers, as a common effort of politeness, saw a strong likeness between Mrs. Rowe and her niece, the representative of the Whytes of Battersea drew herself to her full height, which was a trifle above her niece’s shoulders, and answered—­“Oh dear, no, madam!  It would be very strange if there were, as there is not the slightest blood relationship between us.”

Lucy Rowe was about fifteen when I first saw her.  A slender, golden-haired, shy and quiet girl, much in bashful and sensitive demeanour like her romantic namesake of “the untrodden ways.”  It is quite true that she had no Whyte blood in her veins, and Mrs. Rowe could most conscientiously declare that there was not the least resemblance between them.  The Whyte features were of a type which none would envy the possessor, save as the stamp of the illustrious house of Battersea.  The House of Savoy is not attractive by reason of its faultless profile; but there are persons of almost matchless grace who would exchange their beauty for its blood.  In her very early days, I have no doubt.  Lucy Rowe would have given her sweet blue eyes, her pouting lips, and pretty head (just enough to fold lovingly between the palms of a man’s hand), for the square jaw and high cheek-bone of the Whytes.  She felt very humble when she contemplated the grandeur of her aunt’s family, and very grateful to her aunt who had stooped so far as to give her shelter when she was left alone in the world.  She kept the accounts, ran errands, looked after the house linen, and made herself agreeable to the boarders’ children; but all this was the very least she could do to express her humble thankfulness to the great lady-relative who had befriended her, after having been good enough to commit the sacrifice of marrying her uncle Joshua.

Lucy sat many hours alone in the business parlour—­an apartment not decorated with the distinct view of imparting cheerfulness to the human temperament.  The mantelpiece was covered with files of bills.  There were rows of numbered keys against the wall.  Mrs. Rowe’s old desk—­style Empire she said, when any visitor noticed the handsome ruin—­stood in a corner by the window, covered with account books, prospectuses and cards of the establishment, and heaps of old newspapers.  Another corner showed heaps of folded linen, parcels left for boarders, umbrellas and sticks, which had been forgotten by old customers (Mrs. Rowe called them clients), and aunt’s walking-boots.  One corner was Lucy’s, which she occupied in conjunction with a little table, at