han a little surprised; and I showed it, I suppose,
on telling him Lucilla's age.

"As things are now," he explained, "there are reasons which make me
hesitate to enter on the question of Miss Finch's blindness either with
my brother, or with any members of the family. I must wait to speak about
it to _them,_ until I can speak to good practical purpose. There is no
harm in my starting the subject with _you._ When she first lost her
sight, no means of restoring it were left untried, of course?"

"I should suppose not," I replied. "It's so long since, I have never
asked."

"So long since," he repeated--and then considered for a moment.

His reflections ended in a last question.

"She is resigned, I suppose--and everybody about her is resigned--to the
idea of her being hopelessly blind for life."

Instead of answering him, I put a question on my side. My heart was
beginning to beat rapidly--without my knowing why.

"Mr. Nugent Dubourg," I said, "what have you got in your mind about
Lucilla?"

"Madame Pratolungo," he replied, "I have got something in my mind which
was put into it by a friend of mine whom I met in America."

"The friend you mentioned in your letter to your brother?"

"The same."

"The German gentleman whom you propose to introduce to Oscar and
Lucilla?"

"Yes."

"May I ask who he is?"

Nugent Dubourg looked at me attentively; considered with himself for the
second time; and answered in these words:

"He is the greatest living authority, and the greatest living operator,
in diseases of the eye."

The idea in his mind burst its way into my mind in a moment.

"Gracious God!" I exclaimed, "are you mad enough to suppose that
Lucilla's sight can be restored, after a blindness of one-and-twenty
years?"

He suddenly held up his hand, in sign to me to be silent.

At the same moment the door opened; and Lucilla (followed by Oscar)
entered the room.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

He sees Lucilla

THE first impression which poor Miss Finch produced on Nugent Dubourg,
was precisely the same as the first impression which she had produced on
me.

"Good Heavens!" he cried. "The Dresden Madonna! The Virgin of San Sisto!"

Lucilla had already heard from me of her extraordinary resemblance to the
chief figure in Raphael's renowned picture. Nugent's blunt outburst of
recognition passed unnoticed by her. She stopped short, in the middle of
the room--startled, the instant he spoke, by the extraor