There were moments when in her desolation she almost wished she was reconciled to her husband on any terms, even to the extent of condoning the wrong and the evil. The strict reader must pardon her, for she was very desolate. The idea always went away at once, and she would arouse herself with a shiver. Perhaps, of all phases of the affair, the one that told most upon her, that she felt to be more humiliating than the rest, was the fact of its having been brought close to her home, to its very gates: and a thousand times she asked herself the ambiguous question--Why could not Sir Karl rid the Maze of its inmates, and convey them to a distance? She might have schooled her heart to care for Karl less had they been separated: he at the North Pole, say: she at the South. But they were living under the same roof, and met hourly. They went to church together, and paid visits with each other, and sat at the same breakfast and dinner tables. For their public intercourse was so conducted that no suspicion of the truth should get abroad, within doors or without. As to Karl, he was waiting on his side with what patience he might until his wife's mood should alter; in fact, he had no other alternative; but he treated her with the most anxious kindness and consideration. That she had taken the matter up with unjustifiable harshness, he thought; but he excused it, knowing himself to be the real culprit for having married her. And thus they went on; Lucy's spirit wounded to the core, and her anguished heart pining for the love that she believed was not hers. She was sitting one Saturday evening under the acacia tree, in the delicate muslin she had worn in the day, when Karl came down from his dressing-room ready for dinner, and crossed the lawn to her. He had been to Basham, and she had not seen him since the morning. "You are very pale, Lucy." "My head aches badly: and it was so pleasant to remain here in the cool that I did not go in to dress," she said to him in a tone of apology. "And why should you?" returned Karl. "That is as pretty a dress as any you have. What has given you the headache?" "I--always have it now, more or less," had been on the tip of her tongue; but she broke off in time. "The heat, I think. I got very hot to-day, walking to Margaret Sumnor's." "It is too hot for walking, Lucy. You should take the carriage." "I don't like the parade of the carriage when I go to Margaret's." "Would you like a little pony-chaise? I will buy you one if you----" "No, thank you," she interrupted hastily, her tone a cold one. "I prefer to walk when I go about Foxwood. The heat will pass away sometime." "You were saying the other day, Lucy, to some one who called, that you would like to read that new book on the Laplanders. I have been getting it for you." He had a white paper parcel in his hand, undid it, and gave her a handsomely-bound volume. She felt the kindness, and her sad face flushed slightly.