They were engaged to dine the following day at a distance, four or five miles off; a ball was to follow it. When the time came, Lady Andinnian, radiant in her white silk bridal dress, entered the reception-room leaning on the arm of her good-looking husband. Who could have dreamt that they were living on ill terms, seeing them now? In public they were both cautiously courteous to each other, observing every little obligation of society: and in truth Karl at all times, at home and out, was in manner affectionate to his wife. Two carriages had conveyed them: and, in going, Lucy had occupied one with her father; Karl, Mrs. Cleeve, and Miss Blake the other. Lucy had intended to return in the same order, but found she could not. Colonel Cleeve, unconscious of doing wrong, entered the carriage with his wife and Miss Blake: Lucy and her husband had to sit together. The summer's night was giving place to dawn. "I fear you are tired, Lucy," he kindly said, as they drove off. "Yes, very. I wish I was at home." She drew her elegant white cloak about her with its silken tassels, gathered herself into the corner of the carriage, and shut her eyes, seemingly intending to go to sleep. Sleep! her heart was beating too wildly for that. But she kept them resolutely closed, making no sign; and never another word was spoken all the way. Sir Karl helped her out: the others had already arrived. "Good night," she whispered to him, preparing to run up the stairs. "Good night, Lucy." But, in spite of Lady Andinnian's efforts to make the best of things and show no sign, a mother's eye could not be deceived; and before Mrs. Cleeve had been many days in the house, she was struck with the underlying aspect of sadness that seemed to pervade Lucy. Her cheerfulness appeared to be often forced; this hidden sadness was real. Unsuspecting Mrs. Cleeve could come to but one conclusion--her daughter's health must be deranged. "Since when have you not felt well, Lucy?" she asked her confidentially one day, when they were alone in Lucy's little sitting-room. Lucy, buried in a reverie, woke up with a start at the question. "I am very well, mamma. Why should you think I am not?" "Your spirits are unequal, Lucy, and you certainly do not look well; neither do you eat as you ought. My dear, I think--I hope--there must be a cause for it." "What cause?" returned Lucy, not taking her meaning. "We should be so pleased to welcome a little heir, my dear. Is it so?" Lucy--she had just dressed for dinner, and dismissed Aglaé--coloured painfully. Mrs. Cleeve smiled. "No, mamma, I think there is no cause of that kind," she answered, in a low, nervous tone. And only herself knew the bitter pang that pierced her as she remembered how certain it was that there could be no such cause for the future. But Mrs. Cleeve held to her own private opinion. "The child is shy in these early days, even with me," she thought. "I'll say no more."