any further annoyances, I dare say she will
come round."

"And her daughter?" asked Mrs. Wynter rather anxiously. "Do you think
she would get on with the girls?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, my dear. She is not much like them, certainly,
or, indeed, like any English girl. She is wonderfully pretty, but quite
Indian in looks."

"Poor child! what a pity!"

"I am not sure about that. She seems a good girl, and Mary says is the
greatest comfort to her, so I suppose she is English at heart; and as
for her black eyes, there is something very attractive about them."

Mrs. Wynter sighed again. Lucia's beauty, of which it cannot be said
that Mr. Wynter's account was overdrawn, lost all its advantages in her
eyes by being of an Indian type. She could never quite persuade herself
that her husband had not been walking about the streets of Paris with a
handsome young squaw in skins and porcupine quills.

CHAPTER VI.

Poor Maurice! He came up the river early one glorious morning, and
standing on the steamboat's deck watched for the first glimpse of the
Cottage. His heart was beating so that he could scarcely see, but he
knew just where to look, and what to look for. At this time of year
there was no hope of seeing the fair figure watching on the verandah as
it had done when he went away, but the curl of smoke from the chimney
would satisfy him and prove that his darling was still in her old home.
He watched eagerly, breathlessly. Everything was so bright, that his
spirits had risen, and he felt almost certain he was in time. There, the
last bend of the river was turned, and now the trees that grew about
the Cottage and his father's house were visible--now the Cottage itself.
But suddenly his heart seemed to grow still--there was the house, there
was the garden where he and Lucia had worked, there was the slope where
they had walked together that last evening--but all was desolate. No
smoke rose from the chimney; and on the verandah, and on every ledge of
the windows snow lay deep and undisturbed; the path to the river was
choked and hidden, and by the little gate the drift had piled itself up
in a high smooth mound. Desolate!

When the boat stopped at the wharf, there were happily few people about.
Maurice left his portmanteau, and taking the least public way hurried
off homewards. It was too late--that was his only thought; to see his
father, to know when they went, and if possible whither--his only
desire. He strode