ad filled among his own
people--had recovered a claim upon her, and that she must not fail to
give him in his need what succour might be possible. She was right, and
Lucia heard with dismay that their secret was about to be betrayed to
the very person from whom most of all it had hitherto been kept.

Nothing, however, was to be done rashly. Mr. Strafford arrived late in
the evening, and next day he proposed to go to the jail to see
Christian, which he knew there would be no difficulty in doing, and to
bring back to Mrs. Costello such an account as would enable her to judge
how far her interference might or might not be useful. There was still a
chance that it might be useless, and to that hope Lucia clung with a
pertinacity which added to her mother's anxieties.

In the three days which had now passed since the murder, the minds even
of those most nearly concerned had had time to rally a little from the
first shock, and to begin to be conscious of the world around them going
on just as usual in spite of all. Doctor Morton had been to a singular
degree without relatives. An old and infirm uncle, living a long
distance from Cacouna, was almost the only person connected with him by
blood; it was to her own family alone, therefore, that Bella had to look
for the deepest sympathy. But the whole neighbourhood had known her from
a child; and in her great grief every one seemed ready to claim a share.
All the kindness and goodness of heart which in ordinary times was
hidden away under the crust of each different character, flowed out
towards the young widow, and as she sat in her desolate house, sorrow
seemed to invest her with its royalty, and to transform her old friends
into loyal subjects, eager to do her but the smallest service.

And in the midst of this universal impulse of sympathy, and of the
reverence which great suffering inspires, it was impossible for the
Costellos to remain apart. Their own share in the misery did not prevent
them from feeling for the others who knew nothing of their partnership;
and Lucia forgot to accuse herself of hypocrisy when she was admitted
into the darkened room, where her once gay companion sat and watched
with heavy eyes the passing of those first days of widowhood. No one
would have recognized Bella Latour now. She sat, wan and half-lifeless,
caring for nothing except now and then to draw round her more closely a
great shawl in which she was wrapped, as if the only sensation of which