nd now that you cannot) it is not your fault; and
I ought to have remembered that, even when it seemed hardest. I cannot
stay here now; but you will recollect that if ever you _want_ me--as a
friend or brother, you know--a single line will be enough to bring me to
your help. Finally, I beg of you, for the sake of old times, to wear the
ring I send. I bought it for you--you ought to have no scruple in
accepting a keepsake from your oldest friend, MAURICE LEIGH."

In the little box was the ring bought so long ago in Liverpool. It
flashed, as if with the light of living eyes, as Lucia opened the lid.
She regarded it for a moment almost with fear, then took it out and
placed it on her finger--the third finger of her left hand. It fitted
perfectly, and seemed to her like the embodiment of a watchful guardian
who would keep her from wrong and from evil. She fancied this, though
just then two or three drops fell heavily from her eyes, and one rested
for a moment on the very diamonds themselves.

Mrs. Costello's note was longer than Lucia's, and she read it twice
over, before she was sure that she comprehended it. Then she called
sharply "Lucia!"

"Come here," she said, as the girl turned her face reluctantly; and
there was nothing to do but to obey. Lucia came to the side of the sofa,
where her mother had raised herself up against the cushions, but she
trembled so, that to steady herself she dropped down on her knees on a
footstool. Her right arm rested on the table, but the other hand, where
the ring was, lay hidden in the folds of her dress.

"What does this mean, Lucia?" Mrs. Costello asked in a tone which she
had never in her life used to her daughter before. "Are you out of your
senses?"

Lucia was silent. She could almost have said yes.

"You know of course that Maurice is gone?"

"Yes I know it," she answered just audibly.

"Gone, and not likely to return?"

"He tells me so."

"What have you said to him?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! That is absurd. Why did he wish to see you alone to-day?"

"To tell _me_ something," Lucia said with a little flash of opposition
awakened by her mother's anger.

"Yes--I thought so. To tell you something which, to any girl in the
world who was not inconceivably blind or inconceivably vain, would have
been the best news she ever heard in her life. And you said _nothing_?"

"Mamma, it is over. I can't help it."

"So he says--he, who is not much in the habit of talking