things that looked imposing, the futility of _les grands moyens_. Lady Jane’s development had been slow. At twenty-eight she had been less experienced than many a girl of eighteen. But now her eyes were opened. Even her lover, who thought it possible that she might yield under such persuasion, was subject to almost a passing shade of that high but gentle disdain with which she contemplated the vulgar force to which she was subjected; for it was vulgar, alas! though a duke was the originator: and unspeakably weak though it was--what the French call _brutal_--everything, in short, that a mode of action destined to affect a sensitive, proud, and clear-seeing soul ought not to be. The new _régime_ had continued but a short time when Nurse Mordaunt returned one day from her walk with heightened colour and great suppressed excitement. Something, it was evident, was in her mind quite beyond the circle of her usual thoughts; but she talked less, not more, than usual, and left her lady free to read over and over the last letters, and to refresh her heart with all the raptures of her lover’s delight in having again found the means of communicating with her after the misery of six weeks of silence and complete separation. Something he said of a speedy end of all difficulties, which Lady Jane took but little thought of, being far more interested in the reunion with himself, which his letters brought about. A speedy end: no doubt an end would come some time; but at present the prisoner was not so sanguine as those outside. She did not know the gallant stand which the ladies were making, or the social state of siege which had been instituted in respect to the Duke; and she sighed, but smiled, at Winton’s hope. All went on as usual during the long, long evening. It was long, though it was provided with everything calculated to make it bearable--books and the means of writing, writing to _him_--which was far more amusing and absorbing than any other kind of composition. Her fire was bright, her room full of luxurious comfort--a piano in it, and materials for a dozen of those amateur works with which time can be cheated out of its length. But she sighed and wearied, as was natural, notwithstanding the happiness of having her lover’s letters, and of having talked with her mother, and of knowing as she did that some time or other this must come to an end. “After all, nurse,” she said with a little laugh, as she prepared for bed, “to be in prison is not desirable. I should like to have a run in the woods at Billings, or even a walk in Rotten Row.” “Yes, dear,” said nurse, leaning over her, “your ladyship shall do better than that. Oh yes, my sweet, better days are coming. Don’t you let down your dear heart.”