e little details,
such as no letters could have told him, of the weeks since her husband's
death--chiefly of the later ones, and there were many reasons why these
details had a charm for him which made him want to hear more, the more
he heard. In the first place she spoke constantly of Lucia, and it
scarcely needed a lover's fancy to enable him to perceive how in this
time of trial she had been loving, helpful, wise even, beyond what
seemed to belong to the sweet but wilful girl of his recollection. He
listened with new thoughts of her, and a love which had more of respect,
as Bella described those bitter days of which Lucia had told her later,
when neither mother nor daughter dared to believe in the innocence of
the accused man, and when, the one for love, the other for obedience,
they kept their secret safe in their trembling hearts, and tried to go
in and out before the world as if they had no secret to keep.

"Lucia used to come to me every day. I was ill, and her visits were my
great pleasure; she came and talked or read to me, with her mind full
all the while of that horrible idea."

"She knew that it was her father?" asked Maurice. "I wonder Mrs.
Costello, after having kept the truth from Lucia so long, should have
told her all just then."

Bella looked at him inquiringly.

"She had told her before anything of this happened," she answered. "I
believe Lucia herself was the first to suspect that the prisoner was her
father."

"And how did they find out?"

"Mr. Strafford went and visited him."

"Did you ever see him?"

"No. Elise did for a few minutes just before his death; but I have heard
so much about him that I can scarcely persuade myself I never did see
him."

"They were both with him at last?"

"Yes. Poor Lucia never saw him till then."

"Tell me about it, please."

She obeyed, and told all that had happened both within her own knowledge
and at the jail, on the night of Christian's death and the day preceding
it. Her calmness was a little shaken when she had to refer to Clarkson's
confession, though she did so very slightly, but she recovered herself
and went on with her story, simply repeating for the most part what
Lucia and Mrs. Bellairs had told her at the time. When she had finished,
Maurice remained silent. He had shaded his eyes with his hand, and when,
after a minute's pause, he looked up again to ask her another question,
she saw that he had been deeply touched by the picture she had