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Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet

corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and

his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the

moon rise with a milder radiance over great London, than on that

night when it found them still seated under the tree, and shone

upon their faces through its leaves.

Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last

evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.

"You are happy, my dear father?"

"Quite, my child."

They had said little, though they had been there a long time.

When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither

engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She

had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree,

many and many a time; but, this time was not quite like any

other, and nothing could make it so.