One day the child was playing on Lord Montreville’s sofa, when he beckoned her to sit there likewise. He passed his fingers through the curls of the boy’s fair hair, and looking at him with tenderness remarked, “I never knew before what engaging creatures children were! that clear white forehead, and those blue eyes, with such shady eyelashes, are just like yours, Lucy, and I do not love him the less for that.” She thought how delightful such expressions would have been to her, could she have trusted them, and yet she felt almost guilty at receiving them so coldly. He passed his arm round her waist as he spoke. She dared not repel the caress, but she burst into tears, and suddenly rising, she said, “I must not be so foolish and nervous. I believe I want a little fresh air, for I have not been out these two days. I will go and take a turn in the park this lovely evening.” She hastened to quit the room, leaving Lord Montreville surprised, and yet pleased, for he could not attribute this agitation to any cause except love for himself. She sought the most retired part of the park. The sun was getting low, and lighted up the grey rough boles of the old oaks, while the slant beams tipped every object in the landscape with gold, and increased the rich variety of foliage, of form, and of colouring. The distant mountains were purple, the nearer ones adorned with every hue and tint, which blended most softly into the other. The young fawns were skipping and sporting on the smooth glades, between the tufts of trees, while the belling of the deer among the fern mingled with the hum of bees, the chirp of birds, and the summer sounds of evening. She gazed around and thought, “How lovely, how beautiful is nature! How calm and cheerful every thing looks! It is more painful to feel unhappy while every thing seems so gay around one, than if all was as dreary and desolate as one’s own heart. Oh! how I do long to be happy!” and she began to think that perhaps she tormented herself foolishly; that there might be some excuse for her husband, of which she was not aware; that it was impossible any one could seem so affectionate as Lord Montreville, without feeling what he showed: she yielded to the genial influence of the scene around her, and vaguely hoped that all would yet come right. “He will soon be well enough to read his letters,” she thought, “and as I am sure he is very fond of me now, whatever he may have been hitherto, he will be miserable when he finds the letter from that shocking woman; and he will be humble and penitent, and tell me the whole truth, and then I will forgive him, and then he must love me a great deal better than ever, for being so very kind.”