sing out her very life. Lucia, half hidden by the curtain, sat
pondering uselessly over the letter she had read; feeling a vague fear
and a livelier curiosity. But a heart so ignorant of sadness in itself,
and so filled at the moment with all that is least in accord with the
prosaic troubles of middle life, could not remain long fixed upon a
doubtful and uncomprehended misfortune. Gradually her fancy reverted to
brighter images; the sunny life of her short experience, the only life
she could believe in with a living faith, had its natural immutability
in her thoughts; and she unconsciously turned from the picture which had
been forced upon her--of her mother shrinking terrified from a calamity
about to involve them both--to the brighter one of her own happiness
which that dear mother could not help but share. So strangely apart were
the two who were nearest to each other.

Mrs. Costello was the first to rouse herself.

"Light the lamp, dear," she said, "and let us have tea. I suppose I must
not get up again."

"No indeed. I will bring my work in here and sit by you."

"Will Maurice be here to-night?"

"He is at the Scotts."

"True, I forgot. We shall be alone, then?"

It was a question; a month ago it would have been an assertion; and
Lucia answered, "Yes."

"Then we may arrange ourselves here without fear of interruption," Mrs.
Costello said more cheerfully. "Bring a book, instead of your work, and
read to me."

She did not then intend to explain Mr. Strafford's letter. Lucia had
almost hoped it, but on the other hand she feared, as perhaps her
mother did, to renew the afternoon's excitement.

So, after tea, she took the last new book and read. Mrs. Costello lay
with her face shaded; she had much to think of,--only old debatings with
herself to go over again for the thousandth time; but all her doubts,
her wishes, her fears quickened into new life by the threatened
discovery, of which the letter lying under her pillow had warned her;
and the changes which a multitude of recollections brought to her
countenance were not for her child, still ignorant of all the past, to
see.

The evening passed quickly in this tumult of thoughts. Lucia was
interested in her story, and read on until ten o'clock, when Margery
came in.

"Mr. Maurice, Miss Lucia. He came in at the back, just to ask how your
mamma is. Will you speak to him?"

Lucia went out. Maurice was standing in the dark parlour, and she almost
ran agains