creamy blossom.

Everything was so peaceful that there seemed, even to herself, a strange
discord between the scene within and the heavy pain that sunk deep into
her heart this evening--a trembling sense of dread--a passionate yet
impotent desire to escape. She pressed her hand upon her heart. The
motion roused her from her reverie which indeed had lasted but a
minute--one of those long minutes when we in one glance seem to retrace
years of the past, and to make a fruitless effort to pierce the veil of
the future. She rose, and, bidding her companion "Come in," stepped into
the little parlour.

A shaded lamp had been brought in and placed on the table, but the flame
was turned down so as to throw only a glimmering light just around it.
Mrs. Costello turned it up brightly, and opening the door of the
adjoining room, called Lucia, who came, slow and reluctant, at the
summons. Maurice pushed forward a little chintz-covered chair into its
accustomed place by the table, and looked at the wilful girl as much as
to say, "Be reasonable and make friends," but she did not choose to see.

"I can't sit indoors," she said, "it is too hot;" so she went and sat
down on the doorstep.

Maurice gave a little impatient sigh, and dropped into a chair which
stood opposite to Mrs. Costello, but turned so that without positively
looking round, he could see the soft flow of Lucia's muslin dress, and
the outline of her head and shoulders.

He had brought, as usual, various odds and ends of news, scraps of
European politics or gossip, and morsels of home intelligence, such as
women who do not read newspapers like to be told by those who do, and he
began to talk about them, but with no interest in what he said;
completely preoccupied with that obstinate figure in the doorway.
By-and-by, however, the figure changed its position; the head was
gradually turned more towards the speakers, and Maurice's as gradually
was averted until the two attitudes were completely reversed; he and
Mrs. Costello appeared to be engrossed in the subject of a conversation
which had now grown animated, while Lucia, from her retreat, stole more
and more frequent glances at the visitor. At length she rose softly, and
stealing, with the shy step of a child who knows it has been naughty, to
her own chair, she slipped into it. A half smile came to Maurice's lips,
but he knew his old playfellow's moods too well to take the least notice
of her movement, and even when she a