It need not be said, that her thoughts were of Charles Tyrrell, of their blighted hopes, of their happiness destroyed, of his probable fate, of the awful question, whether he was really guilty or not. She had remarked often, very often, the fiery impetuosity of his nature;--she had heard, and heard exaggerated, many an anecdote of his passionate boyhood;--she had seen how continually his father irritated him, till human nature could scarcely bear it any longer;--and she had heard of the terrible dispute, and its still more terrible cause, which had taken place between the father and the son on that fatal day; and she asked herself, again and again, whether it were really possible that, driven into actual phrensy by his father still pursuing him, Charles Tyrrell might not have raised his hand against that father's life. She had never spoken with her mother on the subject, for she knew that if she did, she could no longer command her feelings. The letter which Charles Tyrrell had sent to her, had only reached her on that very morning, and in it he had made no allusion whatever to his guilt or innocence. It was filled throughout with words of deep and burning affection. He had felt as if, in writing it, he were pouring forth, for the first, and perhaps the last time, all the deep and energetic passion of his heart. The awful situation in which he was placed--the terrible scenes through which he had gone--the mighty importance of every moment, as it then passed by, seemed to raise, and elevate, and strengthen, and excite, till love assumed more than love's own eloquence, and the soft words of affection became sublime. She had read it. She had determined to answer it; she had determined also to beseech her mother to let her go and visit him in prison. But she had felt also that she could neither trust herself to do the one or the other during that day; for the letter had itself unnerved her, and she required some time to recover strength and calmness sufficient to speak with her mother on the subject. When Mrs. Effingham had set out for the park, Lucy had determined to employ the evening in struggling to overcome her feelings. But it was with her, as is too often the case when we sit down with such a determination, alone, and unaided by other motives; we are ourselves overcome in the struggle, and our feelings triumph over us rather than we over them. She had given way; her whole thoughts had turned to grief and despondency, and the evening that she thus passed alone was sadder, darker, more despairing, than any that she had passed since the fatal event which had interrupted all her prospects of happiness.