When Stanhope looked out, on the following morning, he saw Lucie, alone in a small garden, adjoining the house, busily employed in training some flowers; and the painful impression of the last night was almost forgotten, in the impulse which he felt to join her.  He was chagrined to meet De Valette, as he crossed a passage, but repressing a repugnance, which he felt might be unjustly excited, he addressed him with his usual cordiality, and they entered the garden together.  Lucie’s face was turned from them, and she did not seem aware of their approach, till startled by the voice of De Valette.

“You do not seem very industriously inclined,” he said; “or are you resting, to indulge the luxury of a morning reverie?”

“I was in a most profound reverie,” she replied, turning quickly round; “and you have destroyed as fair a vision, as ever dawned on the waking fancy.”

“Was your vision of the past or future?” asked De Valette.

“Only of the past; I care not for the future, which is too uncertain to be trusted, and which may have nothing but misfortunes in reserve for me.”

“You are in a pensive mood, just now,” said De Valette; “when I last saw you, I could scarce have believed a cloud would ever cross the sunshine of your face.”

“Experience might have rendered you more discerning,” she answered, with a smile; “but you, who love variety so well, should not complain of the changes of my mood.”

“Change, as often as you will,” said De Valette; “and, in every variation, you cannot fail to please.”

“And you,” said Lucie, “cannot fail of seeming very foolish, till you leave off this annoying habit of turning every word into a compliment:—­nay, do not look displeased,” she added, gaily; “you know that you deserve reproof, occasionally, and there is no one who will administer it to you, but myself.”

“But what you define a compliment,” said Stanhope, “would probably appear, to any other person, the simple language of sincerity.”

“I cannot contend against two opponents,” returned Lucie; “so I may as well give up my argument, though I still maintain its validity.”

“We will call it a drawn game, then,” said De Valette, laughing; “so now, Lucie, candidly confess that you were disposed to find fault with me, without sufficient cause.”

“There is certainly no flattery in this,” replied Lucie; “but I will confess nothing,—­except that I danced away my spirits last evening, and was most melodiously disturbed afterwards, by some strolling minstrel.  Were you not annoyed by unseasonable music, Mr. Stanhope?”

“I heard music, at a late hour,” he replied; “but it did not disturb me, as I was still awake.”

As he spoke, he was vexed to feel the color mount to his very temples; and Lucie, who instantly comprehended the cause of his confusion, bent her eyes to the ground, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes.  An embarrasing pause ensued; and De Valette, displeased at the secret sympathy which their looks betrayed, stooped to pluck a rose, that grew on a small bush beside him.