With the exception perhaps of a few singular persons who seem to enjoy being miserable, there is so strong a desire of happiness in the youthful mind, and something so painful in a continued state of depression, that the spirits will spring up, unless new causes of unhappiness arise; and Lucy returned from her walk with an elastic step, and a sensation as if a weight had been taken off her mind, although nothing had occurred which in the slightest degree altered her situation. Lord Montreville was now able to bear the full light, and to move into the next room. He became anxious to see his letters. He asked for the key of the escrutoire, in which they were locked up. The moment was come when she had to impart to him that she had ventured to break the seal of some of them. With a beating heart, and trembling hand, she showed him that she had received from the agent, and told him how she had in consequence been obliged to open some of his letters, to find the papers required. Lord Montreville’s colour changed. He repeated his request for the key, and without making any farther remark, he rang the bell for his own man, and taking his arm, walked into his morning-room. He dismissed the servant, and Lucy heard him lock the door, as if to preclude all chance of interruption. She sat with a palpitating heart, counting and calculating the time it would take him to read through the mass of papers which had accumulated, and wondering when he would rush to her feet to crave mercy and forgiveness. It was evident by the change in his countenance, by his silence, by his ringing for his servant, instead of asking for her supporting arm, that he expected letters from this woman. She remained hoping, doubting, fearing. Dinner-time arrived. Lord Montreville was not yet well enough to dine with her, so she ate, or rather could not eat, her solitary morsel. They generally drank tea together. She wondered whether she should find him in the drawing-room as usual. She wondered how he would receive her. She did find him there as usual, but with him the nurse and child. That evening their boy first toddled alone from the father’s sofa to the mother’s knee, and Lucy caught him up, and devoured him with kisses, in a transport of delight and pride, that mothers, and mothers only, can comprehend. “Oh!” she thought, “he will own all to me to-night, and I shall forgive him for the sake of that dear child.” The boy went to bed—the candles came—Lucy took her work, and sat down with her back rather turned towards Lord Montreville, wondering when the moment would arrive. “He is waiting till tea is over—the servants will be coming in and out.” Tea did come. It was generally with them a meal, as Lord Montreville dined at two o’clock. It was however a meal, to which neither of them, that evening, did justice. At length urn, toast, butter, bread, and cakes, were removed, and Lucy’s heart might almost have been heard to beat, when the last servant shut the door.