."

But, as it happened, the note, although written, was not sent. On the
following morning, just as breakfast was over at the Cottage, Mrs.
Bellairs' pony and sleigh came to the door, and, after a hasty inquiry
for Mrs. Costello, Mrs. Bellairs herself came in.

"William told me," she said, "that he had seen you yesterday, and that
you were not well; so I thought the best thing I could do was to come
myself, and see how you were to-day."

There were a few minutes of talk, like, and yet unlike, what might have
taken place between the same party at any other time--unlike, for each
was talking of one thing, and thinking of another; even Mrs. Bellairs,
who had, of course, heard from her husband the history of her friend's
extraordinary and unaccountable agitation at the jail, and was full of
wonder and curiosity in consequence.

After a little while Mr. Strafford left the room. Lucia was watching for
an opportunity to follow him, when her mother signed to her to remain,
and at once began to speak of what had happened yesterday.

"That unhappy man's confession," she said, "must have been a relief to
you all, I should think; but you cannot guess what it was to us."

"It was a relief," Mrs. Bellairs answered, "for it will save so much
horrible publicity, and the going over again of all that dreadful story;
but it is shocking to think of that poor Indian, shut up in prison so
long when he was innocent. But William will not rest till he is at
liberty."

"I fear he will never be that. He is dying."

"Oh! I hope not. William told me he was very ill; but when we get him
once free, he must be taken good care of, and surely he will recover."

"I think not. I do not think it possible he can live many days; and no
one has the same interest in the question that I have."

She stopped a moment, and then, drawing Lucia towards her, laid her hand
gently on her shoulder.

"Dear friend," she said, "you have spoken to me often about this child's
beauty; look at her well, and see if it will not tell you what her
father was."

Mrs. Bellairs obeyed. Lucia, under the impulse of excitement, had
suddenly risen, and now stood pressing one hand upon the mantelpiece to
steady herself. Her eyes were full of a wistful inexplicable meaning;
her whole figure with its dark and graceful beauty seemed to express a
mystery, but it was one to which no key appeared.

"Her father?" Mrs. Bellairs repeated. "He was a Spaniard, was not he?"

"I have