“Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, as you might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without leave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and receive in your ear this whisper. If my Polly ever came to know by experience the uncertain nature of this world’s goods, I should like her to act as Lucy acts: to work for herself, that she might burden neither kith nor kin.”

“Yes, papa,” said she, pensively and tractably. “But poor Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.”

“You thought like a little simpleton. I never thought so. When I had time to consider Lucy’s manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw she was one who had to guard and not be guarded; to act and not be served: and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet bless Providence. But this school,” he pursued, changing his tone from grave to gay: “would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss Lucy?”