The next morning Lucy was down stairs by eight o'clock, appearing scarcely to feel any fatigue from the gaieties of the last evening. The servants, taking advantage of their mistress's slumbers, had not been very careful to rouse themselves early; and as Lucy wandered about the house, she found nothing but rooms half closed, and maids with sweeping brushes, dusters, and open windows, forming no tempting welcome on a cold morning. Yet, chill as was prospect both within and without, she felt nothing cheerless that morning, and, putting on her bonnet and cloak, she went out, saying she would be back by breakfast time. She found the atmosphere thick and humid, and cold drops quickly gathered on her veil. The streets, under the influence of a slight thaw, were wet with black mud; but she quickly threaded her way through them, till reaching Milsom Street, she took her way towards the higher parts of the town. Few people were stirring, shops were only just open, and the occupiers engaged in filling their empty windows with a display for the day. The light-hearted girl scarcely giving a thought to any thing around her, soon reached the Circus, a fine but gloomy part of the town. Time and the weather have cast a black shade over its formerly clean white stone, which gives it an appearance of sadness, which is shared by the sombre hue of the evergreens, which ornament its garden. To one of its houses Lucy hurried, and after a short pause, was ushered into it by an old man, apparently butler in the establishment. The room into which she was shown, was upon the ground floor, and shared in no very slight degree, the appearance of the outside of the buildings. Its furniture was dark green, and the curtains, with their many heavy folds had been suffered to trespass too much upon the windows. There was an oak wainscoting round the room, and here and there some old portrait frowned down from the walls. The room was rather long than wide, and lighted by windows only on the one side, looking on the street; this often made it appear dark, but, in contrast to every thing about the place, a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and a small table, with a snowy cloth, supported the hissing urn, and a frugal but snug breakfast. Seated beside it was rather a young looking lady. There was a certain air of unmistakeable dignity over her whole appearance; her features, though irregular, were intellectual and commanding, and the sparkling eye wandered with restless energy. Her hair was black as an Indian's, and she might have been called beautiful, but for the melancholy, which, as a veil, seemed thrown round her, stilling every quicker impulse into chill composure. She held the Times in her hand, folded at the leading article, but she laid it down and rose, on Lucy's entrance, with a look of surprise and pleasure.

"Why love," said she, "I thought you would be sleeping for an hour or two yet, after the fatigues of last night. I am sure no common event would bring you out this foggy morning, but sit down and I will give you some breakfast, for I am sure you have had none; let me take off your shawl, and then you shall have some of your favorite chocolate, and tell me your news as you drink it."

"I could not sleep," said Lucy, "and as no one was up I thought I would come and see why you were not at the ball as you promised last night."

"My poor uncle was so bad with his gout, that I had not the resolution to leave him, and you know how little will tempt me to stay away from such things," said Miss Foster, with a sigh.

"Ah," said Lucy, smiling, "clever people like you do not need such frivolities; but what would my poor vacant brain do without them."

"Why is it vacant? But you have not, like me, given up the phantom happiness, or you would prefer seeking something more substantial."

Lucy glanced at the leading article, and gave a slight shrug.

"You may come to that at last," replied her friend, with a moonlight smile, which passed almost immediately away, "really you do not know what a pleasure the morning papers give me—they make me remember that I am a denizen of the world, and besides, a daughter of England, and then I forget how lonely I am as an individual."

"But why lonely," returned Lucy, "the slightest effort on your part would surround you with friends, and you might have a host of acquaintances instead of my poor self, whom alone you admit, and I enjoy that privilege, merely from accident."

"You do not quite know me yet," said Miss Foster, "such society is no longer tolerable. And I might never have known even you, had not your horse thrown you at our very door, and forced me to open it. There was, indeed, something so pleasing in being able to nurse you for a few days, that I became insensibly attached to you. But such accidents seldom occur, and I care not to go through the common ordeal of acquiring acquaintances."

"Well," said Lucy, "when I am inclined to turn anchorite, Millie, you must let me in, and I will come and live with you; but I am rather of opinion that the world is a mirror which reflects back our smiles and our frowns."

"Is that sentiment your own?" enquired her companion, quickly.

"No—second hand from a delightful partner that I met last night. Such a very nice man—quite beyond my poor powers of description; everything he said was so clever, and so new, it seemed as if he had read more of the human heart than any one I ever met. He talked to me nearly all the evening."

"Imprudent girl!" exclaimed Miss Foster.

"Oh, if you take everything I say so seriously," said Lucy, poutingly, "I will not tell you anything."

"What kind of looking man was he?" said Miss Foster, without heeding her remark.

"He must be thirty, at least," said Lucy—"with light brown hair, deep blue eyes, rather tall, and very nice looking—not quite so handsome as Captain Clair; but then his talking was the fascinating part."

"And what did he talk about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," said Lucy, coloring.

"And did you hear his name?" enquired Miss Foster, almost restraining her breath.

"Beauclerc," said Lucy; "is it not a pretty name?"

"You must have nothing more to say to him, if he talks such in a way that you blush already. Will you promise me?" said she, most violently.

"You must give me some reason."

"Imprudent girl, you must take my warning."

"If he were making love, I might consider," said Lucy; "but, as a common acquaintance, and a delightful dancer, you must give me some reason for cutting him."

"You are rash," repeated Miss Foster; "do not have anything to say to him, or you will repent it."

"I am not to be led blind-folded," said Lucy; "and you must prove me in danger before I can think such advice needed. Pray let us talk of something else—my poor beaux always tease you."

There was a very palpable tinge of vanity in this last remark, which caused Miss Foster to bite her lips, as if suppressing violent emotion, and to remain silent, though the uneasy flash of her dark eye betrayed something of the violence of her temper.

At this inopportune moment, a knock at the hall door announced another early visitor.

The door of their sitting-room was, after an interval of some minutes, cautiously opened by the venerable butler, who, with some embarrassment, presented a card to his mistress on a silver salver.

Lucy almost trembled as she saw that the storm which had been gathering on her friend's countenance was now ready to burst forth.

Her cheeks, which had a moment before been brightly flushed, turned to a livid white, as she brushed the card from the salver without touching it, and then stamped upon it with impotent violence.

Lucy's eyes fell upon the name—it was that of "Beauclerc"—and, unperceived, she took it up, and concealed it in the folds of her dress from further indignity.

"I am not at home," said Miss Foster, in a decisive tone to the aged butler, who regarded the scene with more concern than surprise, and left the room slowly and sadly. The front door was presently heard to close. As if ashamed of the passion into which she had been betrayed, Miss Foster seated herself, at once, and tried to resume her usual coldness of demeanor.

"See," said she, "the way in which I dare to treat him, and judge for yourself if he is worthy to be received as an admirer of yours."

"I think," said Lucy, recovering her animation, "you have shewn yourself very little my friend to treat a man with indignity, when I had expressed a contrary opinion of him."

Miss Foster regarded her rising spleen with an indifferent coldness, which made her still more angry.

"I say," she reiterated, "that it is a most unkind and ungrateful way of returning my confidence."

"Wilful child!" exclaimed Miss Foster, "will you never be guided for your own advantage?"

"I am no child!" exclaimed Lucy; "and if I do choose a guide, it shall be one who can rule her own temper."

"You should allow for the emotion you cannot understand," said Miss Foster, gravely; "but leave me now, Lucy, and do not be angry—we are both excited—and may say things we do not mean."

"Leave you," exclaimed her offended friend, starting up, and putting on her shawl with trembling hands—"I will not stay another moment where I am not wanted."

Miss Foster's head had sunk upon her hand, perhaps she was too deeply absorbed in her own feelings to notice Lucy's anger, till suddenly raising her eyes, in which thick tears were gathering—she watched her movements with a curious interest—but Lucy was already at the door—and gasping a "good morning," she hurried away, leaving her friend to the unpleasant thoughts she was indulging.

It was not anger alone which led Lucy to leave the house so hastily, for she was curious to see her pleasing companion of the night before, if but for a moment. She was not disappointed, for, as she opened the door, she perceived him standing on the other side of the way.

Could he have seen her enter the house? and, might not his having done so, been the reason of his early call on Miss Foster. Vanity is a ready prompter; and she had not proceeded many steps before she believed the delusive argument, and attributed her friend's warnings to jealousy. She had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, before she perceived Mr. Beauclerc crossing to her side of the way, and she gave a bow and a smile, which proved a ready inducement for him to join her. He looked so dejected, that she had not the heart to check his intention of lounging by her side, and he was far too courtly and ready in his manners to give such a meeting the least appearance of awkwardness.

"You are acquainted with the lady of that house then?" he enquired, after a slight pause in the conversation.

"Yes," said Lucy, smiling and looking at him, "and I suspect you know her also."

"Do you know her well?" he said, slightly colouring.

"Oh, very intimately—she is a great friend of mine."

"You know all her secrets then?"

"Well, I dare say I do," she replied, smiling importantly; for, to confess that she had a friend, and did not know all her secrets, seemed a derogation from her own dignity; "but, I fear I shall not know many more, for we have parted in anger."

"Indeed! can that be true—you in anger."

"Yes, yes," said Lucy, looking archly at him; "and what do you think it could be about?"

"I have, indeed, no means of guessing," he replied, with an interest which Lucy attributed rather to herself than her subject.

"About yourself, it was then?" said she, looking slightly aside.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed, delightedly; "have you then been speaking of me?—and what did she say of me?"

"Nothing you would, perhaps, like to hear," she said, with the same archness as before.

"And what part did you take?" said he, eagerly.

"Oh," she replied, laughing carelessly, "I never do things by halves—so I defended you through thick and thin."

"Excellent girl," cried he, enthusiastically, taking her hand, and pressing it warmly, "how can I ever thank you enough for this kindness?"

"Prenez garde," said she, "gossippers are abroad, and there, I declare, is Miss Lovelace's youngest sister going for her music lesson—all Bath will say we are flirting."

"You know how to contradict such scandal by a word," said he; "but that word, for my sake, you will not speak."

Lucy did not quite understand this last speech; but she did not like to say so, and, therefore, murmured a rapid "Yes."

A slight pause followed; and then he resumed the conversation with such a sudden flow of spirits, that Lucy very soon forgot everything in the pleasure of listening to him, and even suffered him to lengthen the walk by taking a longer route. At the entrance to Sydney Place, he took leave of her, and she returned home, thinking over everything he had said. They had only talked on general topics after all; but then he spoke with a deference to her opinion which was very pleasing. She was in very good humour with herself, and resolved that, after leaving Miss Foster to cool for a week or so, she would call and make up the quarrel in the most generous manner she could. Satisfying her conscience with this, she entered the house, and hastily taking off her bonnet, seated herself, with the rest, at the breakfast-table, in good spirits and with a fresh color, contenting herself with a very laconic description of her morning walk.