“Suppose one had done that,” said Lucy, hurriedly, turning her head away, and speaking more, as I thought, to herself than to me. “Suppose one had clothed another in an ideal so beautiful, so noble, that one almost trembled at one’s own wondrous gladness beholding it; and suppose that suddenly a blast came, and rent the glorious tissue here and there, and revealed a hidden thing of clay below; and one came to know that this noble spirit had never _been_ at all, save in the fancy that created it. I dreamt of such a thing the other night; and dreams come true sometimes. Adam, we all change--not one, but all of us.” I could not speak then, nor did I try to answer her. What could I say? it was the first check put upon my joyous confidence in all whom I called friends. “Has your father told Hew, Lucy, that he thinks of leaving Murrayshaugh?” I inquired at last, eager to change the subject. “I think not. I hope it is only _possible_, Adam; I know nothing more than that; my father does not trust me; but we must know soon.” I left Murrayshaugh sadly that day. When I had nearly reached Mossgray, I met Lilias with some of her companions, driving her father’s little four-wheeled equipage. They paused a moment to receive my eager bashful salutations, and then drove on. The sunshine of that young face dispersed the cloud of doubt and unhappiness that hung about me; for anything false, anything sad, could not come near Lilias-- “I trow that countenance cannot lie Whose thoughts are legible in the eie,” I said to myself joyously as I went on. I repented me of my suspicions of Charlie. Lucy must be mistaken. His conduct could be explained. The bright mist fell again over the world, and I forgot my fears and anxieties; they all fled before the smile of Lilias. I did not see Lucy Murray again before Charlie himself arrived. He reached Mossgray on the afternoon of another brilliant May-day. He was very full of his prospects, and considerably elated with the successful beginning. He even told me the particulars of this first case, I recollect, in natural excitement and exultation, and very humdrum as they were, they interested me too, for his sake. He had been nearly an hour in the house. Mrs Mense, the housekeeper, was preparing a magnificent dinner in honour of Mr Charlie, the great advocate; and there he sat, lounging half out of the open window, talking himself out of breath. I am nervous when I have any cause of anxiety. I began to change my position, to walk about the room, to take up and throw down everything within my reach. Charlie made no sign--he lounged and talked and laughed; he discussed the things which he _would_ do, and which I _should_. I could bear it no longer. “Charlie,” said I, “you intend to go to Murrayshaugh I suppose before dinner. You should set out at once, and make haste, for Mrs Mense will not forgive you if you spoil her trout to-day.”