Milly was her comfort. She sometimes conversed with her for hours, and listened with sympathy to the details of her life in America, and with interest to her unsophisticated view of things in general. She thought that after all there was nothing half so good or so sensible as Milly, except the Duchess of Altonworth;—indeed, she fancied she perceived a considerable resemblance between their characters. They returned to the country. When the first excitement was over, of bells being rung and oxen being roasted—when the servants, the tenants, the neighbours, had all looked at the wonderful child, and pronounced it to be the very finest they had ever seen, Lucy relapsed into her former state of ennui. She began to think she must be ill. “Milly, I do not think I am well,” she one day promulgated to Milly, as she was sitting in the nursery. “La, my lady! I am sure you look the very picture of health! What ever is the matter?” “I do not know, exactly.” “You have not the headache, sure?” “No! my head never aches.” “Perhaps, my lady, you feel tired if you walk too far.” “No! I do not think I ever feel tired with walking, but I feel very tired if I do not walk.” “Sure, my lady!—that’s comical too!” “I never feel merry as I used to do; and I think it must be my state of health that prevents my being so. I have thought of consulting Dr. Bolusville, only I do not know what to say to him. I have no symptom that I know of—only I ought to be so very happy. I possess every thing that a person can sit down and wish for, and yet I feel low. I sometimes think, if I had more occupation, I should be better; but Lord Montreville is so kind, he will not let me take any trouble about any thing. Now, I dare say you did not feel low when you were in your log hut, on the banks of your swampy river—did you?” “No, my lady! I never did, certainly;—when poor John was middling well, that is.” “Ah, yes, for you had plenty to do! that must have been the reason. When I was a child, I always worked harder in my garden than my sisters; and the old bailiff once gave me a silver knife, because he said I had earned it haymaking. How I do wish Lord Montreville would let me help him to manage the house, and that he would consult me, and talk with me; but you see he never has any thing to say to me, except a kind word now and then, just as he has to the child. I should like to go hand-in-hand with my husband, as you and John did, and ride about his woods, and his park, and his farm with him, as the Duchess of Altonworth does with the Duke; and I should like to have a school, and to be useful. But he would not let me go to the school—especially now—he is so afraid of my bringing back the measles, or any complaint to the child.”