s voice.

"Tired? oh, no! At least not very much."

"And you have enjoyed the day after all?"

"Pretty well. Not much, I think."

"I thought you looked happy enough this evening. Come, confess you are
glad you did not stay at home."

"Indeed, I will not; mamma, I am sure, wished me to stay?"

"Yet she made you come."

"Yes, because she thought I wanted to do so. Maurice, do you think she
looks ill?"

"No, I have not noticed it. Does she complain?"

"Mamma complain! A thing she _never_ does. But it seems to me that
something is different. I can't tell what. She goes out less than ever,
and seems to dislike my leaving her." Lucia longed to say, "She has some
trouble; some heavy anxiety; can you guess what it is?" but she had an
instinctive consciousness, that even to this dear and tried friend, she
ought not to speak of a subject on which Mrs. Costello was invariably
silent. Even to herself, a certain darkness hung over her mother's past
life; there were years of it of which she felt utterly ignorant.
Whatever was the cloud of the present, it might be connected with the
recollections of those years; this thought checked her even while she
spoke.

Whether Maurice had any similar reason for reticence or not, he only
said, "I do not think she would hide anything from you which need give
you uneasiness. I advise you not to torment yourself causelessly."

"I am not tormenting myself; but I think yours is a miserable plan. You
would have people feel no sympathy for the troubles of others, unless
they can be paraded in so many words."

"Decidedly you must be very tired, or you would take the trouble to
understand me better."

He put down his whip, to draw her cloak more closely round her, for the
dewy night air was chill, but she pushed it away.

"I am quite warm, thank you. How long the road seems to-night! Shall we
ever be at home?"

"We are almost there. See, that is your own acacia-tree."

"I am so glad. Don't turn up the lane. I can run up there perfectly well
by myself."

"Indeed you will not. Sit still, if you please."

"How tiresome you are, Maurice! You treat me just as if I were a baby."

"Do I? A bad habit, I suppose. I will try to cure myself."

His tone was so quiet, so free from either ridicule or anger, that she
grew more impatient still.

"Now pray do let me get out. I can see Mr. Leigh's light burning still,
as well as mamma's. They must both be tired of waiting. Why does your
father