occurred to Lucy. All she knew was
that she had somehow glided into a state of existence different from
anything she had ever experienced before; that her days were all
brightness, the world an Eden, and that it was the presence of Lionel
that made the sunshine.

She stood before the glass, twisting her soft brown hair, her cheeks
crimson with excitement, her eyes bright. The morrow morning would be
listless enough; but _this_, the last on which she would see him, was
gay with rose hues of love. Stay! not gay; that is a wrong expression.
It would have been gay but for that undercurrent of feeling which was
whispering that, in a short hour or two, all would change to the darkest
shade.

"He says it may be a twelvemonth before he shall come home again," she
said to herself, her white fingers trembling as she fastened her pretty
morning-dress. "How lonely it will be! What shall we do all that while
without him? Oh, dear, what's the matter with me this morning?"

In her perturbed haste, she had fastened her dress all awry, and had to
undo it again. The thought that she might be keeping them waiting
breakfast--which was to be taken that morning a quarter of an hour
earlier than usual--did not tend to expedite her. Lucy thought of the
old proverb: "The more haste, the less speed."

"How I wish I dare ask him to come sooner than that to see us! But he
might think it strange. I wonder he should not come! there's Christmas,
there's Easter, and he must have holiday then. A whole year, perhaps
more; and not to see him!"

She passed out of the room and descended, her soft skirts of pink-shaded
cashmere sweeping the staircase. You saw her in it the evening she first
came to Lady Verner's. It had lain by almost ever since, and was now
converted into a morning dress. The breakfast-room was empty. Instead of
being behind her time, Lucy found she was before it. Lady Verner had not
risen; she rarely did rise to breakfast; and Decima was in Lionel's
room, busy over some of his things.

Lionel himself was the next to enter. His features broke into a glad
smile when he saw Lucy. A fairer picture, she, Mr. Lionel Verner, than
even that other vision of loveliness which your mind has been pleased to
make its ideal--Sibylla!

"Down first, Lucy!" he cried, shaking hands with her. "You wish me
somewhere, I dare say, getting you up before your time."

"By how much--a few minutes?" she answered, laughing. "It wants twenty
minutes to nine.