it was not strange that,
overwhelmed with the stronger and more personal interest, they should
forget to wonder or lament over the dead, cut down in the very beginning
of life, or to think of the desolate and widowed bride meeting her first
grief in the unnatural guise of murder.

Mrs. Costello came back to her chair by the fireside. She could no
longer take her fears and anxieties into the solitude of her own room,
and hide them there. There was both pain and comfort in knowing that
Lucia now shared with her every additional weight--even this last, which
she scarcely yet comprehended. But it was some time before either spoke.
Each was trying to gauge the new depth which seemed to have opened under
their feet--the wife and daughter of a murderer! The old ignominy, the
old degradation, had been all but intolerable. How then should they bear
this? And their secret, must it not be known now? become the common
gossip of the country, of the people who had called them friends? Each
felt instinctively that their thoughts were running on in the same
channels, each shrank from words. Yet, it was needful to consult, to ask
each other the question, "What shall we do?"

At last Mrs. Costello roused herself.

"We must put off our journey," she said, with a smothered sigh, which,
indeed, had nearly been a groan.

Lucia looked up.

"It may not be true," she answered, knowing that there was no need to
say what "it" was--the idea which had seized upon both their minds with
so deadly a grasp.

"It may not, God grant it! But we must know; and if it is, I ought to be
here."

"Mother, you cannot. It will kill you."

Mrs. Costello smiled, the wan smile of long-taxed patience.

"No," she said, "I think not. Life is hard for both of us, hardest
perhaps for you, darling, just now, but I have no thought that it is
over yet for either of us."

Lucia came and knelt down in her old place by her mother's side. It
always seemed as if thus close together, able to speak to each other as
much by caresses as by words, they were both stronger, and could look
more calmly at the calamities which threatened them with every evil
except that of separation.

"You will write to Mr. Strafford?" Lucia asked.

"Yes; but first we must know certainly."

"And how to do that?"

"There will be no difficulty to-morrow. Mr. Leigh is sure to hear the
particulars. I will go and ask him about them."

"You do not mean to tell him?"

"No; it will be easy