Often now, as she walked, she paused, for she was weary, and very, very changed; and pale was the cheek that had then been so bright and glowing. Often her spirits failed, and she seemed inclined to turn back, and urge to herself her aching limbs as an excuse for her failing purpose. Her airy form dragged rather than tripped over the ground; yet still she went on. As she was thus proceeding, with her eyes bent upon the ground, fearing, that, if she raised them, some unwelcome acquaintance might recognise her as the lady with the married lover, some one knocked slightly against her--they both stopped to apologise. It was Beauclerc. He looked timidly, as if he would enquire for her if he dared. "Give me your arm up this hill," said Lucy, with gentle calmness. "I am tired and faint." He offered it instantly, though rather surprised, and she saw that he was pale and thoughtful. "I am going," she said, quietly, "to see what I can do for you; but I can do little, and you can do much. Give me an hour by your watch to be alone with her--then force your way in--this is all I can do. Good-bye. You can wait in the Circus." She took her hand from his arm; he made no reply; but the look of remorse which met hers, spoke more than words could do. Lucy went on with a quicker step, and did not again stop till she reached the well-known door, and then she hastily rang. The old butler made his appearance as usual, but looked vexed to see her. "Is your mistress at home? and can I see her?" said Lucy. "She is at home, ma'am; but she has been very ill, and I do not think she will be able to see you." "She will not see me, you mean; but I must go to her. Good Geoffry, tell me where she is," she said, passing him quickly. "Not with bad news, as you came before," said the old man. "No, no, no--only let me go to her," she cried, with the impetuosity of a spoilt child. "You will find her in her own room, ma'am; be careful, whatever you do, for she is very poorly." "Where is your master then?" "He is gone to London on business, ma'am; but he will be back to-morrow, I hope." "Show me to her room--no, stay, I will go alone." She passed him, and ran quickly up-stairs, and stopped at the door she well knew, and tapped gently. A moment's pause succeeded, and then a slow and reluctant permission to enter was given; and she opened the door, and paused, for an instant, on its threshold. In the lonely and darkly hung chamber, which was mostly ornamented by heavy bookcases and frowning pictures, sat the once happy wife. Her white hand, as it rested on the volume, which, with many others, lay before her, was thin and attenuated, and though there was not a trace of tears on her cheek, or in the dark beauty of her eye, yet that cheek was pale and sunken, and the eye was hollow and heavy, while the heavy tresses of her raven hair seemed to oppress the head, which she was resting on her other hand, as she read.