The sun was just risen. Oswald supposed that no one was yet stirring, till he perceived Lucy already drawing in a balcony. Her hair, not yet fastened, was waving in the gale: she looked so like his dream, that for a moment he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural circumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station, but she did not perceive him. As he pursued his walk, he wished more than ever for the presence that would have dissipated these half-formed impressions. Lucy was an enigma, which Corinne's genius could have solved; without her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind's eye. He re-entered the drawing-room, and found Lucy placing her morning's work in a little brown frame, facing her mother's tea-table. It was a white rose, on its leafy stalk, finished to perfection. "You draw, then?" he said.--"No, my Lord," she answered; "I merely copy the easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the little I ever learned I owe to a sister who used to give me lessons." She sighed.--"And what is become of her?" asked Oswald.--"She is dead; but I shall always regret her."--He found that _she_, too had been deceived;[1] but her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition, that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before. Lucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone with Lord Nevil, when Lady Edgarmond joined them. She looked on her daughter with surprise and displeasure, and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed Oswald that Lucy had done something very extraordinary, in remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother's presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices. Lady Edgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant who had supported her to the sofa. She was pale, and her lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to Lord Nevil. These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet, animated by zeal for her he loved, he began: "Lady Edgarmond, I have often in Italy seen a female particularly interesting to you."--"I cannot believe it," she answered, dryly: "no one there interests me."--"I should think that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your affection."--"If the daughter of my husband be indifferent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of her."--"But," said Oswald, quickly, "if the woman your Ladyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great and varied talents, will you forever thus disdain her?"--"Not the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses, artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank, a woman's only becoming station is that which devotes her to her husband and children."--"Madam," returned Oswald, "such talents cannot exist