O Fortuna, viris invida fortibus Quam non aqua bonis praemia dividis. SENECA. . . . . . . . . . . . . And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew. . . . . . . . . . . . . Here, to the houseless child of want, My door is open still. GOLDSMITH. Slowly for Lucy waned the weeks of a winter which to her was the most dreary portion of life she had ever passed. It became the time for the judge to attend one of those periodical visitations so fraught with dread and dismay to the miserable inmates of the dark abodes which the complex laws of this country so bounteously supply,--those times of great hilarity and eating to the legal gentry,--…
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