sked him a question, he simply
answered it, and did not even look at her in doing so.

An hour passed. Lucia had entirely recovered from her little fit of
sulkiness, and, to the great content of Maurice, was, if possible, even
more sweet and winning than usual; but nothing had been said of the next
day's plans. When the young man rose to leave, however, Lucia followed
him out to the verandah to look at the moonlight.

"We shall have a fine day to-morrow" he said.

"Oh, Maurice," she answered, quickly, as if she had been waiting for the
opportunity of speaking, "I am sure mamma does not want me to go, and I
would so much rather stay at home. Will you go and tell Mrs. Bellairs in
the morning for me?"

"Impossible! Why Lucia, this is a mere fancy of yours."

"Indeed it is not. I am quite in earnest."

"But, my dear child, Mrs. Bellairs has your mother's promise, and I do
not see how you can break a positive engagement without better reason."

She stood silent, looking down.

"Are you thinking of that foolish conversation at dinner to-day? I
wonder Mrs. Bellairs should have repeated it."

"It was Bella Latour who told me."

"Ah," said Maurice, "I forgot her. Of course it was. Well, at any rate,
think no more of it."

"That's very easily said," she answered dolorously "but I do think it's
not right," she added with energy, the hot colour rushing into her
cheeks, "to speak about one so. It is quite impertinent."

Maurice laughed. "Upon my word I believe very few young ladies would
agree with you; however, I assure you it would be giving the enemy an
advantage to stay away to-morrow, and I suppose, if I constitute myself
your highness's body-guard, you will not be afraid of any more
impertinence of the same kind."

He said "Good-night," and ran down the steps. As he passed along the
path under the verandah where she stood, she took one of the half-faded
roses from her belt and flung it at him. He caught it and with mock
gallantry pressed it to his heart; but as he turned through the wicket
and along the footpath which led to his home close by, he continued
twirling the flower in his fingers. Once it dropped, and without
thinking he stooped, and picked it up. He carried it into the house with
him, and into his own room, where he laid it down upon his writing-table
and forgot it.

Meanwhile, Margery had fastened doors and windows at the cottage, and
soon all was silent and dark, except the glimmer of Mrs. Costel