whisper, with a scared glance in the
direction of her husband and his guests,--

'Ay, ay, sure _I am glad_.'

Lucy lingered on the rough ground before the house, and looked down upon
the scene before her, trying in vain to realise that this had ever been her
home.

The wood-crowned heights to the left were showing the tints of autumn, and
a soft haze lay in the valley, and brooded over the home of the Sidneys,
the stately walls of the castle and the tower of the church clearly seen
through the branches of the encircling trees, which the storm of a few days
before had thinned of many of their leaves.

The mist seemed to thicken every minute, and as Lucy turned into the road
she gave up a dim idea she had of going on to Hillside to pay her respects
to Madam Ratcliffe, and hastened toward the village. The mist soon became a
fog, which crept up the hillside, and, before she had crossed the plank
over the river, it had blotted out everything but near objects. There
seemed a weight over everything, animate and inanimate. The cows in the
meadow to the right of the bridge stood with bent heads and depressed
tails. They looked unnaturally large, seen through the thick atmosphere;
and the melancholy caw of some belated rooks above Lucy's head, as they
winged their homeward way, deepened the depression which she felt creeping
over her, as the fog had crept over the country side. The village children
had been called in by their mothers, and there was not the usual sound of
boys and girls at play in the street. The rumble of a cart in the distance
sounded like the mutter and mumble of a discontented spirit; and as Lucy
passed through the square formed by the old timbered houses by the lych
gate, no one was about.

The silence and gloom were oppressive, and Lucy's cloak was saturated with
moisture. She entered the house by the large hall, and here, too, was
silence. But in the President's Court beyond, Lucy heard voices, low and
subdued. She listened, with the foreshadowing of evil tidings upon her, and
yet she stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to turn fears into certainty,
suspense into the reality of some calamity.

Presently a gentleman, who had evidently ridden hard, came into the hall,
his cloak and buskins bespattered with mud. He bowed to Lucy, and said,--

'I am a messenger sent post haste from Mr Secretary Walsingham, with
despatches for the Countess of Pembroke. I have sent for one Mistress
Crawley, who, I am infor