Nor long after he had entered the carriage night came on; but though he had rested not at all the night before, no sleep now visited his eyelids, and he watched with feverish anxiety, the passing from stage to stage, conjuring up every dark and bitter anticipation, every terrible prospect and gloomy image, thinking the horses tardy, though they went at full speed, and the time wasted in waking the people at the inns, and changing the horses, almost interminable. Day dawned at length, but he was still far from his journey's end, and weary hour after hour went by, till he almost fancied the milestones along the road were themselves deceiving him. It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, when coming down one of the wooded slopes of Devonshire, with the dark blue sea, rising to meet the eye above the trees in the valley, he saw the little church crowning the hill above, and the few scattered white houses, which constituted the village, round the clergyman's house. It was a neat and pretty building, though very small. There was a garden before the door filled with autumn flowers, and that sweetest of all importations from foreign lands, the monthly rose, clustering the porch and spreading round the windows. The casements were almost all open, and the sunshine was upon the dwelling. There is much, very much, in the aspect of a place to which we are going. The whole of Charles's journey had offered him nothing but images of despair; but the sight of that house, and its flowers, and its sunshine, showed him that hope was not altogether extinguished in his bosom. As the carriage and four drove up, there was a head put out of one of the upper windows, and, without ringing or knocking, a servant ran to open the door, and the little gate. "How is Miss Effingham?" demanded Charles instantly. "She is better, sir," replied the maid. Charles put his hand to his heart, and paused for a moment, for he felt as if he should have fallen. "Where is she?" he demanded at length, "where is she? I may go up, I'm sure." The servant ran up stairs before him, but he overtook her as she reached the top, and himself knocked at the door which she was opening. "May I come in?" he said; "may I come in? It is Charles." "Oh, yes, come in, come in, dearest, Charles," said the voice of Lucy, herself. "Come in," repeated the voice of Mrs. Effingham, and Charles was in the room in a moment. Lucy was sitting up in bed, with her mother beside her. She was pale, and had evidently been very ill; but there was life, and hope, and joy in her eyes, and Charles, springing forward, threw his arms around her, and pressed her to his bosom. "I shall soon be well now, Charles," said Lucy, as soon as she could dry her tears. "Your step upon the stairs, Charles, was better than the finest drug that ever was imported from foreign lands. I shall soon be well now!"