Another was Belle, and the third was Adelaide. The latter was one of the most perfectly beautiful girls in face and form I ever saw, and she had really pretty red hair. I have often met or passed her since that in the street and never without admiring her beauty and thinking of her mother, and how she must mourn "a girl lost."
I was now satisfied that Athalia was not in the room, and I said carelessly. "Where is that other girl I saw here, with brown hair and blue eyes, not very tall?"
"Oh, confound names, I never can think of names."
"Oh, I know who he means," said Adelaide, "it is Lucy, Lucy Smith."
"Yes, yes, that is it. It is Lucy at any rate."
"She is in her room. She has got the dumps--the blues--I should not wonder if she was all melted by this time, she has been crying these three days."
"Crying, why what has she to cry about? I should not think anybody need to cry in this house, you never cry, do you?"
The very question almost brought a tear, but she drove it back.
"Well, Lucy must come down and have some wine. Get her down, and we will have another bottle."
"She won't come. We are all tired of trying. She has got the pouts, because Mrs. Laylor took her trunk away from her to keep for her board. She don't make any thing. All she ever did make was out of Frank Barkley, and that she gave to redeem her watch and a good-for-nothing old Bible I don't see what she wants of that."
"Well, I am going to have her down--I have no opinion of having any girl in the dumps. Where is her room?"
"Third floor back room. That is right, go and bring her out whether or no. She has hardly been out for a week till to-day Mrs. Laylor took her out riding with her, to try to put a little life in her, for fear she would die on her hands, and she would have to bury her for charity."
"Well, well, I will bring her down, see if I don't. Come, Treewell, if she will not come without we will bring her."
So away we went upstairs, now satisfied that we were on the right trail, and that we had completely lulled all suspicion that we wanted anything of Lucy Smith, except to compel the poor heart-sick woman to join in a Bacchanalian revel, at which her soul revolted. Up, up we went, passed three "private rooms," in which we will not seek to look, for they are occupied by those who come veiled and in the dark. Here is the room we want. We knocked but received no welcome "come in."