The woman had never spoken out as she was speaking to-day. Generally she had seemed calm and resigned--to get well, or to die. Lucy was intensely sorry for her. She would take-herself to task for being so miserable with this real distress close at hand, and for at least the rest of the day allow it to read her a salutary lesson. Passing in at the small gate again, she made her way to the acacia tree and sat down under it, letting her parasol fall to the ground. Karl, who was at home again, could see her from his window, but he did not attempt to go to her. And so she idled away the morning in weariness. Theresa appeared at luncheon; but Sir Karl did not. Lucy remembered that a parcel she was expecting from London ought to be at the station (only an autumn mantle) and thought she would go in the pony-chaise for it. Anything for a change for a break in her monotonous life. So the chaise was ordered, and the groom to drive it. It came round, and she was getting in when Karl approached. "Are you going to drive yourself, Lucy?" "Oh no. Robert is coming." "I will go, then. We shall not want you, Robert." "But I was only going to the station," she said. "To the station?" "I think my new mantle may be there." He drove off, turning towards the station. The mantle was not there: and Karl continued his drive as far as Basham. They said very little to one another. Just a remark on the scenery, or on any object passing: nothing more. Karl pulled up at the saddler's shop, to give some direction about a set of harness they were making for him. Just as he got into the chaise again, somebody passed and took off his hat, with a "Good afternoon, Sir Karl." It was Mr. Tatton. Karl wondered what he was doing in Basham. Of course, the detective might be there for fifty things, totally unconnected with his profession: but nevertheless the sight of him awoke uneasiness in Karl's mind. When a heavy dread lies upon us, the most trifling event will serve to stir up suspicion and augment fear. Karl drove home again, and Lucy went up to her little sitting-room. She was owing a letter to Mrs. Cleeve, but held back from writing it. Great though her affection was for her mother, she hated now to write. It was so impossible to fill up a letter--as it seemed to Lucy--and yet guard her secret. She could not say "Karl and I are doing this;" or "Karl and I are doing the other:" and yet if she did not say something of this kind of their home life, or mention his name, her fancy suggested that it would look strange, and might arouse doubt. Conscience makes us cowards. She might have sent a letter that day, saying, "I have just got home from a drive with Karl;" and "Karl and I decided this morning to have that old fir-tree by the rocks dug up;" and it would be quite true: but Lucy in her strict integrity so disliked the deceit the words would imply, that she shrank from writing them.