She lifted her deep blue eyes to his face, and gazed at him tenderly, confidingly, but thoughtfully; while he bent down his eyes upon her with a look of deep and earnest affection, yet characterized by the strong emotions of the moment, and by some degree of reproachful sadness. But all was clear and noble, and open in that countenance, and Lucy, as she gazed, could not entertain a shadow of a doubt. Feeling that she had in some sense wronged him, though but slightly, she cast her arms around him, and again leaning her fair face upon his bosom, she said, "No, Charles--no, no, no! I do no doubt you. I know, I feel, that you are innocent." "As innocent as you are, Lucy," replied Charles Tyrrell. "As I have hope in heaven, Lucy--as I love you truly and well--as I look for the continuance of your love--and as I place my whole hopes in this life on your affection--I never saw my unfortunate father from the moment that I left him in the library, till the moment I saw him lying dead in the same room." "I believe you, Charles, from my heart," replied Lucy; "indeed, I have never really doubted you. I have, indeed, asked my heart whether it was possible; and in so doing I have thought of all your impetuosity, and your fieriness, Charles. But I have remembered your noble nature, and the restraint I have often seen you put upon yourself; and the reply has still been, no, it is impossible." "Hark," said Charles Tyrrell. "There are carriage-wheels. That must be your mother, Lucy, returned." "Oh, mind not that," said Lucy, "mind not that. I know you ought to go, and yet, I cannot part with you so soon. It is terrible, terrible, Charles, to see you leave me under such circumstances, and after such a brief moment as this. It is very, very terrible, Charles, and who knows when or how I shall see you again." "Would to God, you could go with me," cried Charles Tyrrell, pressing her to his heart. "Oh, Lucy! Lucy! what a fancy has come up before my eyes!" They were both silent for several moments, and through the open door of the conservatory they heard the voices of persons speaking in the drawing-room beyond. Lucy made no reply to what Charles Tyrrell had said. But her hand had rested in his, and he thought he felt it clasp upon his somewhat more closely than before, as if within her bosom, there were feelings which echoed the wishes and thoughts of his. They heard a step in the conservatory, and she said rapidly, "I am your promised wife, Charles; and my view of such an engagement is, that I am as much bound to you for ever, as if I had made the promise at the altar, which I made in the woods of the park. I can never be any other man's wife, so long as you live. I can never refuse to be yours whenever you ask me to be so. Such have always been my feelings with regard to that engagement. Let that satisfy you. I have duties to fulfil toward my mother, or I would refuse to accompany you nowhere."