"I think what Mr. Sumnor said must be true," resumed Lucy. "That the more sorrow we have to endure in this world, the brighter will be our entrance to the next. I am sure he has a great deal of sorrow himself: whenever he preaches of it he seems to feel it so deeply." Karl appeared not to hear. He was gazing upwards, a look of patient pain on his pale face. There were moments--and this was one--when Lucy's arms and heart alike yearned to encircle him, and ask for his love to be hers again. She cared for him still--oh, how much!--and wished she could awake to find the Maze, and all the trouble connected with it, a hideous dream. They sat on, saying nothing. The birds sang as in spring, the trees waved gently beneath the blue sky, and the green grass was grateful for the eye to rest upon. On the handsome house lay the glad sun: not a sound of every-day labour, indoors or out, broke the stillness. All was essentially peace. Except--except within their own wearied breasts. The bell of Trinity church rang out for service, arousing Lucy from her reverie. She said she should like to attend it. "What! this afternoon?" exclaimed Karl. "You are not accustomed to go in the afternoon." That was true. The heat of the summer weather had been almost unbearable, and Lucy had not ventured to church in it more than once a day. "It is cooler now," she answered. "And I always like to go if I can when I have stayed for the communion." But Karl held back from it: rather, Lucy thought, in an unaccountable manner, for he was ever ready to second any wish of hers. He did not seem inclined to go forth again, and said, as a plea of excuse, that he preferred to retain the impression of the morning's sermon on his mind, rather than let it give place to an inferior one. His head was aching badly. "I do not ask you to come," said Lucy, gently. "I should like to go myself, but I can go quite well alone." When she came down with her things on, however, she found him ready also; and they set off together. It may be questioned, though, whether Lucy would have gone had she foreseen what was to happen. In the middle of the service, while the "Magnificat" was being sung, a respectable, staid woman entered the church with an infant in her arms. A beautifully dressed infant. Its long white robe elaborately embroidered, its delicate blue cloak of surpassing richness, its veil of lace dainty as a gossamer thread. The attire, not often seen at Foxwood, caught Lucy's eye, and she wondered who the infant was. It seemed to her that she had seen the nurse's face before, and began to ransack her memory. In an instant it flashed on her with a shock--it was the servant at the Maze. She turned her eyes on her husband: not intentionally, but in an uncontrollable impulse. Karl was looking furtively at the woman and child--a red flush dyeing his face. Poor Lucy's benefit in the afternoon service was over.