It seemed to her to be dull everywhere; especially dull indoors, and she stepped out to the lawn: turning back almost immediately to get a shawl for her shoulders, in obedience to an injunction of her husband's. On the Sunday evening, when he found her sitting out of doors without one, he had fetched one at once, and begged her not to be imprudent or to forget her ague-fever of the previous year. She remembered this now and went back for the shawl. Some wives, living in estrangement from their husbands, might have studiously set his commands at naught, and have risked ague, or what not, rather than obey them. Not so Lucy Andinnian. She was meek and gentle by nature. Moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling he had caused to rise up between them, in spite of her sense of wrong and insult, she loved him in her heart, and could not help it, as truly as ever. Visions would steal over her in unguarded moments, of the present trouble being hushed to rest; of all that was amiss being done away with, and she and he reconciled and at peace again. Unhappily for the demands of pride, of self-assertion, Lucy was by no means one of your high-spirited and strong-minded heroines, who rashly overlook all interests to indulge in reprisals and revenge. She folded the shawl about her--one of substantial white silk crape--as carefully as Karl could have folded it; and she stayed, she knew not how long, in the open air. Pacing the lawn; sitting amidst the flowers; standing under the shade of the trees; always in deep thought. The nightingale sang, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she listened to the strain. "What a sweet place this would be to live in," thought Lucy, "if only we could but have peace with it!" But the nightingale's song and the oppressive thoughts, together with the falling dusk, brought back all her low spirits again. "There will never be any more happiness for me in this world, never, never," she sighed, and the tears were dropping as she went up to her own room. By and by Sir Karl returned. Not seeing his wife downstairs, he went up and knocked at the door of her little sitting-room. He had not had an opportunity of speaking a private word to her since his return. There came no answer, and he entered. The room was empty; but as he stood for a moment in the deep silence of twilight, the sound of sobs in Lucy's bedchamber smote his ear. He knocked at it. "Lucy!" She had indeed once more given way to all the abandonment of grief. Which was very foolish: but perhaps its indulgence brought a kind of relief, and indeed her spirit was very sore. The knock startled her: but she had not heard the call. "Who's there?" she asked, stepping to the door and stifling her sobs as she best could. "I want to speak to you, Lucy." She dried her eyes, and unlocked the door, and made believe to be calmly indifferent, as she stepped into the sitting-room. "I beg your pardon, Sir Karl. I was busy, and did not hear you."