avy
and incomprehensible as entirely to eclipse the former ones.

One morning, about six weeks after his arrival at Hunsdon, there arrived
for Maurice two Canadian letters and a newspaper; the letters from his
father and Mrs. Costello, the newspaper addressed by Harry Scott.
Maurice dutifully opened Mr. Leigh's letter first; he meant just to see
that all was well, and then to read the other; but the news upon which
his eye fell, put everything else for the moment out of his head. He
glanced half incredulously over what his father said, and then tore open
the newspaper to seek for its confirmation. He had not far to seek. Two
columns of the thin provincial sheet were scored with black crosses, and
bore the ominous heading, "Dreadful Murder!" in the largest capitals. He
read the whole terrible story through, and thought, as well as he could,
over it, before he remembered the second and still unopened letter.

But no sooner had he opened and read this, than the news which had just
before seemed to bring the most fearful realities of life and death so
near to him, faded away almost out of his recollection to make way for
the really personal interest of this calamity. Mrs. Costello wrote,

"I have done wrong; and I should feel more difficulty, perhaps, in
asking you to forgive me, if I did not, with you, have to regret the
bitter disappointment of my hopes and wishes. You and Lucia must not
meet again, unless, or until, you can do so without any thought of each
other except as old playfellows and friends. This sounds cruel, I know,
and unreasonable,--all the more so after the confidence there has been
between us lately; but you must believe me when I say that I have tried,
more than I ought, to keep for myself the consolation of thinking that
my darling would some day be safe in your care, and that this
consolation has been torn from me. But what can I say to you? My dear
boy, only less dear to me than Lucia, I know you will, you _must_, blame
me, and yet it is for your sake and for that of my own honour that I
separate you from us. You have a right that I should say more, hard as
it is. My daughter, whom you have known almost all her innocent life,
would, if you married her, bring, through those most nearly and
inseparably connected with her, a stain and a blot upon your name; no
honourable man can ever make her his wife, and the best prayer that can
be made for her is, that she may remain as unconscious of all earthly
lo