Lucia looked up eagerly. It was her own thought, though she had not dared to say it. Maurice could always find the way out of a difficulty.

"Mamma," she said anxiously, but with some hesitation, "I think this is need—the kind of need Maurice meant."

"Need, truly. But I do not know—"

"He would be glad to help you. And he knows all about us."

"Yes, I should not have to make long explanations to him."

Just then there was a knock at the door. Both started violently. Absurd as it was, they both expected to see Bailey himself enter. Instead, they saw Madame Everaert, her round face flushed with walking and her hands full of flowers.

"For mademoiselle," she said, laying them down on the table, and nodding and smiling good humouredly. "I have been to Rosendahl to see my goddaughter there, and she has a magnificent garden, so I brought a few flowers for mademoiselle."

Lucia thanked her, and admired the flowers, and she went away without suspecting the fright her visit had caused.

"Get your desk, Lucia," Mrs. Costello said, gasping for breath, and almost exhausted by the terrible beating of her heart, "and write a note for me."

The desk was brought and opened.

"Is it to Maurice?" Lucia asked.

"Yes. Say that we are in great need of a friend."

Lucia began. She found it much more difficult than she had done the other night, when she wrote those few impetuous lines which had been afterwards torn up.



"Dear Maurice," she said, "mamma tells me to write to you, and say that something has happened which has frightened her very much, and that we are in great need of a friend. Will you keep your promise, and come to us?"



This was what she showed to her mother. When Mrs. Costello had approved of it, she wrote a few words more.



"I want to ask you to forgive me. I don't deserve it, but I am so unhappy.

"Yours affectionately, "LUCIA."



She hesitated a little how to sign herself, but finally wrote just what she had been accustomed to put to all her little notes written to Maurice during his absences from Cacouna in the old days.

When the letter had been sealed and sent off by Madame Everaert's servant to the post-office, they began to feel that all they could do for the present was done. Mrs. Costello lay still on her sofa, without having strength or energy to talk, and Lucia took her never-finished crochet, and sat in her old place by the window.

But very soon it grew too dark to work. The Place was lighted, and alive with people passing to and fro. The windows of the guard house opposite were brilliant, and from those of a cafe on the same side as Madame Everaert's there shone out, half across the square, a broad line of light. In this way, at two places, the figures of those who moved about the pavement on each side of the Place, were very plainly visible; even the faces of some could be distinguished. Lucia watched these people to-night with a new interest. Every time the strong glare fell upon a shabby slouching figure, or on a poorly dressed man who wanted the air of being a Frenchman, she thought, "Is that Bailey?" When the lamp came in, Mrs. Costello had fallen asleep, so Lucia turned it down low, and still sat at the window. The light on the tower shone out clear and bright—above it the stars looked pale, but the sky was perfectly serene. Maurice, if he came soon, had every prospect of a fair passage. "And he will come," she thought to herself, "even if he is really too much vexed with me to forgive me, he will come for mamma's sake."

All next day they both kept indoors. Lucia tried to persuade her mother to drive out into the country, but even for this Mrs. Costello had not courage. At the same time she seemed to be losing all sense of security in the house. She fancied she had not sufficiently impressed on Father Paul the importance of not betraying her in any way to Bailey. She wished to write and remind him of this, but she dared not lest her note should fall into wrong hands. Then she thought of asking him to visit her, but hesitated also about that till it was too late. In short, was in a perfectly unreasonable and incapable condition—fear had taken such hold of her in her weak state of health that Lucia began to think it would end in nervous fever. With her the dread of Bailey began to be quite lost in apprehension for her mother, and her own affairs had to be put altogether on one side to make room for these new anxieties.

In the afternoon of that day Mrs. Costello suddenly roused herself from a fit of thought.

"We must go somewhere," she said. "That is certain, whatever else is. As soon as Maurice comes we ought to be prepared to start. Do go, Lucia, and see if there is any packing you can do—without attracting attention, you know."

"But, mamma," Lucia objected, "Maurice cannot be here to-day, nor even, I believe, to-morrow, at the very soonest, and I will soon do what there is to do."

"There is a great deal. And I can't help you, my poor child. And there ought not to be a moment's unnecessary delay."

Lucia had to yield. She began to pack as if all their arrangements were made, though they had no idea either when, or to what end, their wanderings would recommence, nor were able to give a hint to those about them of their intended departure.

Another restless night passed, and another day began. There was the faintest possibility, they calculated, that Maurice, if he started as soon as he received Lucia's note, might reach them late at night.

It was but the shadow of a chance, for Hunsdon, as they knew, lay at some distance from either post-office or railway station, and the letter might not reach him till this very morning. Yet, since he might come, they must do all they could to be ready. The day was very hot. All the windows were open, and the shutters closed; a drowsy heat and stillness filled the rooms. Mrs. Costello walked about perpetually. She had tried to help Lucia, but had been obliged to leave off and content herself with gathering up, here and there, the things that were in daily use, and bringing them to Lucia to put away. They said very little to each other. Mrs. Costello could think of nothing but Bailey, and she did not dare to talk about him from some fanciful fear of being overheard. Lucia thought of her mother's health and of Maurice, and Mrs. Costello had no attention to spare for either.

Suddenly, sounding very loud in the stillness, there came the roll of a carriage over the rough stones of the Place. It stopped; there was a moment's pause, and then a hasty ring at the door-bell. Both mother and daughter paused and listened. There was a quick movement downstairs—a foot which was swifter and lighter than Madame Everaert's on the staircase—and Maurice at the sitting-room door.

Mrs. Costello went forward from the doorway where she had been arrested by the sound of his coming; Lucia, kneeling before a trunk in the adjoining room, saw him standing there, and sprang to her feet; he came in glad, eager, impatient to know what they wanted of him; and before any of them had time to think about it, this meeting, so much desired and dreaded, was over.

"But how could you come so soon?" Mrs. Costello asked. "We did not expect you till to-morrow."

"By the greatest chance. I had been in town for two days. Our station and post-office are at the same place. When they met me at the station, they brought me letters which had just arrived, and yours was among them. So I was able to catch the next train back to London, instead of going home."

"And which way did you come? The boat is not in yet?"

"By Calais. It was quicker. Now tell me what has happened."

Mrs. Costello looked carefully to see that the door was shut. Then she told Maurice who and what she feared, and how she could not even leave Bourg-Cailloux without help.

"Yet, I think I ought to leave," she said.

"Of course you ought," Maurice answered. "You must go to England."



CHAPTER XXIII.

"You must go to England," Maurice said decidedly. "It is an easy journey, and you would be quite safe there."

"But I ought not to go to England," Mrs. Costello answered rather uncertainly. "And Bailey might follow us there."

"I doubt that. By what you say, too, if he were in England, we might perhaps set the police to watch him, which would prevent his annoying you. However, the thing to do is to carry you off before he has any idea you are in Europe at all."

Lucia stayed long enough to see that the mere presence of Maurice inspired her mother with fresh courage; then she went back to her packing, leaving the door ajar that she might hear their voices. She went on with her work in a strange tumult and confusion. Not a word beyond the first greetings had passed between Maurice and herself, but she could not help feeling as if their positions were somehow changed—and not for the worse.

There had been no words; but just for one second Maurice had held her hand and looked at her very earnestly; whereupon she had felt her cheeks grow very hot, and her eyes go down to the ground as if she were making some confession.

After that he released her, and she went about her occupations. She began to wonder now whether she would have to tell him how sorry she was, or whether enough had been said; and to incline to the last opinion.

Meanwhile she went on busily. In about half an hour she heard Maurice go out, and then Mrs. Costello came to her.

"He is gone to make inquiries," she said; "you know there is a boat to-night, but then we may not be able to get berths."

"To-night, mamma, for England?"

Mrs. Costello looked a little displeased at Lucia's surprise, "To be sure," she said; "why, my dear child, you yourself thought England would be the best place."

"I did think so certainly, but I did not know I had said it."

"Well, can we be ready?"

"I can finish packing in an hour, but there is Madame Everaert to arrange with."

"We must wait till Maurice comes back before doing that."

"I suppose we must; mamma, will you please go and lie down? Otherwise you will not be able to go."

Mrs. Costello smiled. She felt able for any exertion to escape from her enemy under Maurice's guidance. However, she did as her daughter wished, and lay quietly waiting for his coming back.

Lucia heard his steps first, notwithstanding. She had her last trunk just ready for locking, and went into the sitting-room to hear the decision, with her hair a little disordered and a bright flush of excitement and fatigue on her cheeks.

"Are we to go?" she said quickly.

"I think you should if you can," he answered her. "But can you be ready?"

"By what time?"

"Nine o'clock."

"Everything is packed. Half an hour is all we really need now."

"Three hours to spare then. Everything is in our favour. It is not a bad boat, and there is room for us on board."

"Have you taken berths then?" Mrs. Costello asked.

"Yes. And I will tell you why I did so without waiting to consult you. I made some inquiries about this fellow Bailey, and found out that it would most likely not suit him to go to England for some time to come."

"You inquired about him? Good heavens, what a risk!"

"You forget, dear Mrs. Costello, that I was meant for a lawyer. Don't be afraid. He has no more thought of you than of the Khan of Tartary."

"If you only knew the comfort it is having you, Maurice; I was quite helpless, quite upset by this last terror."

"But you had been ill, mamma," Lucia interposed. "It was no wonder you were upset."

"That is not kind, Lucia," Maurice said, turning to her with a half smile. "Mrs. Costello wishes to make me believe she depends on me, and you try to take away the flattering impression."

"Oh! no; I did not mean that. Mamma knows—" but there she got into confusion and stopped.

"Well," Mrs. Costello said, "we had better send for Madame Everaert, and tell her we are going."

Madame came. She was desolated, but had nothing to say against the departure of her lodgers, and, as Lucia had told Maurice, half an hour was enough for the settling of their last affairs at Bourg-Cailloux.

Mrs. Costello did not wish to go on board the boat till near the hour named for sailing; it was well, too, that she should have as much rest as possible before her journey. She kept on her sofa, therefore, where so large a portion of her time lately had been spent; and Lucia, from habit, took her seat by the window.

Then in the quiet twilight arose the question, "Where are we to go when we reach England?"

"Where?" Maurice said, "why, to Hunsdon, of course. My father will be so pleased—and Louisa will come rushing over in ecstasies the moment she hears."

"That might be all very well," Mrs. Costello said, "if we were only coming to England as visitors, but since we are not, I shall wish to find a place were we can settle as quickly as possible. I should certainly like it to be within reach of Hunsdon, if we can manage it."

"Come to Hunsdon first, at any rate, and look out."

"I think not, Maurice. We might stay in London for a week or two."

"Well, if you prefer it. But, at all events, I know perfectly well that one week of London will be as much as either of you can bear. When you have had that, I shall try again to persuade you."

While they talked, Lucia sat looking out. For the last time she saw the Place grow dusky, and then flame out with gas—for the last time she watched the lighting of the beacon, and wondered how far on their way they would be able to see it still.

Eight o'clock struck; then a quarter past, and it was time to go.

The boat lay in the dock. On board, a faint light gleamed out from the cabin-door, but everything on shore was dark. Passengers were arriving each moment, and their luggage stood piled up ready to be embarked. Sailors were talking or shouting to each other in English and French; the cargo of fruit and vegetables was still being stowed away, and people were running against other people in the darkness, and trying vainly to discover their own trunks on the deck, or their own berths in the cabin. Into the midst of all this confusion Maurice brought his charges; but as he had been on board in the afternoon, he knew where to take them, and they found their own quarters without difficulty. While he saw to their packages, they made their arrangements for the night.

"I shall lie down at once," Mrs. Costello said. "It is not uncomfortable here, and I think it is always best."

"But it is so early, and on deck the air is so pleasant. Should you mind my leaving you for a little while?"

"Not at all. There is no reason why you should stay down here if you dislike it. Maurice will take care of you."

But Lucia had no intention of waiting for Maurice. She saw her mother comfortably settled, and then stole up alone to the deck. The boat had not yet started; it seemed to lie in the very shadow of the quaint old town, and Lucia could trace the outline of the buildings against the starry sky.

She felt a little soft sensation of regret at saying good-bye to this last corner of France. 'And yet,' she thought, 'I have been very unhappy here. I wonder if England will be happier?'

She stood leaning against the bulwarks, looking now at the town, now at the dark glimmer of the water below, and, to tell the truth, beginning to wonder where Maurice was. While she wondered, he came up to her and spoke.

"Lucia, it is you then? I thought you would not be able to stay below."

"No. It is so hot. Here the night is lovely."

"The deck is tolerably clear now. Come and walk up and down a little—unless you are tired?"

"I am tired, but to walk will rest me."

As she turned he took her hand and put it through his arm. For a minute they were silent.

"Two days ago, Lucia," Maurice said "I thought this was an impossibility."

"What!"

"Our being together—as we are now."

"Did you? But you had promised to come if ever we were in trouble."

"Yes. And I meant to keep my word. But I fancied you would never send for me."

"You see," Lucia said, trying to speak lightly, "that we had no other friend to send for."

"Is that so? Was that the only reason?"

"Maurice!"

"Tell me something, Lucia. Did you mean the last sentence of your note?"

"What was it?"

"You said you were unhappy."

"Oh! yes, I was. So unhappy—I was thinking of it just now."

"And at present? Are you unhappy still?"

"You know I am not."

"I have been miserable, too, lately. Horribly miserable. I was ready to do I can't tell you what absurdities. Until your note came."

He stopped a moment, but she had nothing to say.

"It is a great comfort to have got so far," he went on, "but I suppose one is never satisfied. Now that I am not quite miserable, I should like to be quite happy."

Lucia could not help laughing, though she did so a little nervously.

"Don't be unreasonable," she said.

"But I am. I must needs put it to the touch again. Lucia, you know what I want to say; can't you forget the past, and come home to Hunsdon and be my wife?"

They stood still side by side, in the starry darkness and neither of them knew very well for a few minutes what they said. Only Maurice understood that the object of his life was gained; and Lucia felt that from henceforth, for ever, she would never be perverse, or passionate, or wilful again, for Maurice had forgiven her, and loved her still.

They never noticed that the boat was delayed beyond its time, and that other passengers chafed at the delay. They stayed on deck in the starlight, and said little to each other, but they both felt that a new life had begun—a life which seemed to be grafted on the old one before their troubles, and to have nothing to do with this last year. When Maurice was about to say good-night at the cabin door, he made the first allusion to what had brought them together.

"I shall pension Bailey," he said. "His last good deed blots out all his misdoings."

"What good deed?"

"Frightening you."

"He did not frighten me."

"Frightening Mrs. Costello then. It comes to the same thing in the end. But why did not you send for your cousin, Mr. Wynter?"

"Ask mamma."

"I have something more interesting to ask her."

Mrs. Costello knew tolerably well, when Lucia kissed her that night, what had happened. She said nothing audibly, but in her heart there was a Nunc Dimittis sung thankfully; and in spite of the sea, she fell asleep over it. The night was as calm as it could be, and Maurice, who had no inclination for sleep or for the presence of the crowd below, spent most of it on deck. Towards morning he went down; but at seven o'clock, when Lucia peeped out, he was up again and waiting for her. She only gave him a little nod and smile, however, and then retreated, but presently came back with her mother.

They got chairs and sat watching the coast, which was quickly coming nearer, and the vessels which they passed lying out in the still waters.

"We shall be in in two hours," Maurice said, "though we were late starting. The captain says he has not had such a good run this year."

"For which I am very thankful," Mrs. Costello answered.

"What a mercy it is to have got away so easily; it was well we sent to you, Maurice."

"Very well; the best thing that ever was done. Lucia and I agreed as to that last night."

Lucia pouted the very least in the world, and her mother smiled.

"It seems to me you took a long while to settle the question. I thought she was never coming."

"Why, mamma? I came as soon as the boat started."

"We have settled our differences," Maurice said, leaning down to speak quietly to Mrs. Costello. "Do you give us leave to make our own arrangements for the future?"

"I think you are pretty sure of my leave."

"Then we all go straight on to Hunsdon together?"

"Are those your arrangements?"

"Not mine, certainly," Lucia interposed. "I thought we were to stay in London."

"But why?"

"Don't you see," Mrs. Costello asked, "that any little compact you two children may have made has nothing to do with the necessity of my finding a house for myself and my daughter—as long as she is only my daughter."

Maurice had to give way a second time.

"Very well then," he said. "At all events you can't forbid me to stay in London, too."

"But I certainly shall. You may stay and see us settled, but after that you are to go home and attend to your own affairs."

They reached London by noon, and before night they found, and took possession of, a lodging which Mrs. Costello said to herself would suit them very well until Lucia should be married; after which, of course, she would want to settle near Hunsdon. Maurice spent the evening with them, but was only allowed to do so on condition of leaving London for home next morning.

As soon as they were at all settled, Mrs. Costello wrote to her cousin. She told him that she had had urgent reason for quitting France suddenly; that other causes had weighed with her in deciding to return to England, and that she was anxious to see and consult with him. She begged him, therefore, to come up to town and to bring one at least of his daughters with him on a visit to Lucia.

When the letter had been sent off, she said to her daughter, "Suppose that we are penniless in consequence of our flight? What is to done then?"

"Surely that cannot be?"

"I do not know until I see my cousin. I think it must depend legally on the terms of your grandfather's will; but, in fact, I suppose George had the decision in his hands."

After this they both looked anxiously for Mr. Wynter's answer.



CHAPTER XXIV.

But before Mr. Wynter had time to reply.—indeed, by the very first possible post—came a letter to Lucia, the sight of which made her very rosy. She had had plenty of letters from Maurice long ago, and never blushed over them as she did over this; but then this was so different. She did not even like to read it in her mother's presence. She just glanced at it there, and carried it off to devour in comfort alone. It was quite short, after all, for he had scarcely had ten minutes before the post hour; but it said—beside several things which were of no interest except to the reader—that he had found Lady Dighton at Hunsdon on his arrival, and had told her and his father together of his engagement; that his cousin was going to write and invite Mrs. Costello to Dighton; and that Mr. Leigh said, if they did not come down immediately, he should be obliged to start for London himself to tell them how pleased he was.

"At any rate," Maurice concluded, "I shall be in town again on Saturday. I find I have business to see my lawyer about."

All this—as well as the rest of the note—was very agreeable. Lucia went and sat down on a footstool at her mother's feet to tell her the news. Mrs. Costello laid her hand on her child's head and sighed softly.

"You will have to give up this fashion of yours, darling," she said, "you must learn to be a woman now."

Lucia laughed.

"I don't believe I ever shall," she answered. "At least, not with you or with Maurice."

"Would you like to go to Dighton?"

She considered for a minute.

"Yes, mamma, I think I should. You know how things are in those great houses; but I have never seen anything but Canada, and even there, just the country. I should not like, by-and-by, for people to laugh at Maurice, because I was only an ignorant country girl."

She spoke very slowly and timidly; but Mrs. Costello began to think she was right. It would be as well that the future mistress of Hunsdon should have some little introduction to her new world, to prepare her for "by-and-by."

Next day came two letters for Mrs. Costello, as well as one for Lucia. The first was from Lady Dighton full of congratulation, and pressing her invitation; the other, from Mr. Wynter, announced that he, his wife, and daughter, would be in London next evening. Next evening was Saturday, and Maurice also would be there, and would, of course spend Sunday with them; so that they had a prospect of plenty of guests.

Maurice, however, arrived early in the day. He had established himself at a neighbouring hotel, and came in quite with the old air of being at home. He made a little grimace when he heard of the others who were expected, but contented himself by making the most of the hours before their train was due. He found an opportunity also of conveying to Mrs. Costello his conviction that Hunsdon was very much in want of a lady to make it comfortable, and that Lucia would be much better there than shut up in London. The fact that London was in its glory at that moment made no impression on him.

"That is just it," he said, when this was suggested to him. "I want to get it settled and bring her back to enjoy herself here a little before the season is over."

It seemed, indeed, pretty evident that the present state of things could not last long; there was no reason why it should, and nothing but the bride's preparations to delay the long-desired wedding.

The Wynters came about nine o'clock. Mrs. Wynter instantly recognized Maurice. Her daughters had speculated enough about her mysterious visitor that winter night, to have prevented her forgetting him, if she would otherwise have done so, and the state of affairs at present was very soon evident as an explanation of the mystery. When the party separated for the night, Mrs. Costello and Mr. Wynter remained in the drawing-room for that consultation for which he had come, while his wife and daughter stayed together upstairs to talk over their new relations before going to bed.

Mrs. Costello, as briefly as possible, made her cousin comprehend that she had been compelled to leave France, and had fled to England because it was the most accessible refuge.

"I never meant to have come back," she said. "I have never allowed myself to think of it, because I could not disobey my father again."

"I am glad you have come, to tell you the truth;" he answered. "I do not at all imagine that, in your present circumstances, my uncle would have wished to keep you away."

Mrs. Costello looked relieved.

"I am almost inclined to go further," he continued, "and to say that he must have anticipated your return."

"Why?"

"Because in his will he gives you your income unconditionally, and only expresses a wish that you should not come back."

"Is it so really?"

"Certainly. But you have a copy of the will."

"It has not been unpacked since we came from Canada. I had made it so much my duty to obey the request that I had forgotten it had no condition attached to it."

"It has none."

"I am very glad; and you think he would have changed his mind now?"

"I think so. Especially as it seems to me Lucia is likely to settle in England."

"Yes, indeed. That was the second thing I wanted to speak to you about."

"They are engaged, I suppose?"

"Yes; it has been the wish of my heart for years. Maurice is like a son to me."

They discussed the matter in its more commonplace aspect. The wealth and position of the bridegroom elect were points as to which Mr. Wynter felt it his business to inquire, and when he found these so satisfactory, he congratulated his cousin with great cordiality, and plainly expressed his opinion that delays in such a case were useless and objectionable. He liked Lucia, and admired her, and thought, too, that there would be no better way of blotting out the remembrance of the mother's unfortunate marriage than by a prosperous one on the part of the daughter.

Meantime Mrs. Wynter sat in an easy-chair by her dressing-table, and her daughter was curled up on the floor near her.

"Well, mamma," Miss Wynter said, "you see I was right. I knew perfectly well that there must be some romance at the bottom of it all."

"You were very wise, my dear."

"And, mamma, if I had seen Lucia, I should have been still more sure. Why, she is perfectly lovely! I hope she will let me be her bridesmaid."

"Tiny, you know I don't approve of your talking in that way."

"What way, mamma? Of course, they are going to be married. Anybody can see that."

"If they are, no doubt we shall hear in good time."

"And I am sure, if either of us were to marry half as well, the whole house would be in a flutter. I mean to be very good friends with Lucia, and then, perhaps, she will invite me to go and see her. And I must be her bridesmaid, because I am her nearest relation; and she can't have any friends in England, and I shall make her let me have a white dress with blue ribbons."

Mrs. Wynter still reproved, but she smiled, too; and Tiny being a spoiled child, needed no greater encouragement. She stopped in her mother's room until she heard Mr. Wynter coming, when she fled, dishevelled, to her own, and dropped asleep, to dream of following Lucia up the aisle of an impossible church, dressed in white with ribbons of bleu de ciel.

Lucia perhaps had said to herself also that she meant to be good friends with Tiny. At all events, the two girls did get on excellently together; before the week which the Wynters spent in London was at an end, they had discussed as much of Lucia's love story as she was disposed to tell, and arranged that Tiny and her sister should really officiate on that occasion to which everybody's thoughts were now beginning to be directed.

Another week found the Costellos at Dighton. They meant to stay a fortnight or three weeks, and then to return to town until the marriage; but of this no one of their Norfolk friends would hear a word. Lady Dighton, Maurice, and Mr. Leigh had made up their minds that Lucia should not leave the county until she did so a bride; and they carried their point. The wedding-day was fixed; and Lucia found herself left, at last, almost without a voice in the decision of her own destiny.

And yet, these last weeks of her girlhood were almost too happy. She went over several times with her mother and Lady Dighton to Hunsdon, and grew familiar with her future home; she saw the charming rooms that were being prepared for herself, and could sit down in the midst of all this new wealth and luxury, and talk with Maurice about the old times when they had no splendour, but little less happiness than now; and she had delicious hours of castle-building, sometimes alone, sometimes with her betrothed, which were pleasanter than any actual realization of their dreams could be.

Of course, they had endless talks, in which they said the same things over and over again, or said nothing at all; but they knew each other so thoroughly now, and each was so completely acquainted with all the other's past that there was truly nothing for them to tell or to hear, except the one old story which is always new.

One day, however, Maurice came over to Dighton in a great hurry, with a letter for Lucia to read. He took her out into the garden, and when they were quite alone he took it out and showed it to her.

"What is it?" she said. "It looks like a French letter."

"It is French. Do you remember your friend, Father Paul?"

"Of course. Oh, Maurice! it cannot be about Bailey?"

"Indeed, it is. But don't look frightened. I wrote to Father Paul, and this is his answer."

"What made you write?"

"Did not I say I would pension Bailey? I don't forget my promises if other people do."

"Surely, you were only joking?"

"Very far from it, I assure you. Your good friend undertook to manage it, and he writes to me that my letter only arrived in time; that Bailey was ill, and quite dependent on charity, and that he is willing to administer the money I send in small doses suitable to the patient's condition."

"But, Maurice, it is perfect nonsense. Why should you give money to that wretched man? We might, indeed, do something for him."

"Who are 'we?' You had better be careful at present how you use your personal pronouns."

"I meant mamma and I might, of course."

"I do not see the 'of course' at all. Mamma has nothing whatever to do with it—nor even you. This is simply a mark of gratitude to Mr. Bailey for a service he did me lately."

Lucia let her hand rest a little less lightly on Maurice's arm.

"And me too," she said softly.

"Use your 'we' in its right sense, then, and we will reward him. But not unless you are sure that you do not repent having been frightened."

"Ah! you don't know how glad I was when mamma made me write that note. It did better than the one I tore up."

"What was that? Did you tear one up?"

"Yes. After all, I don't believe you were as miserable as I was; for I wrote once; I did actually write and ask you to come—only I tore up the note—and you were consoling yourself with Miss Landor."

"Miss Landor! By the way, has she been asked to come over, for the tenth?"

"I don't know. You ought to ask her yourself. Why did not you propose to her, Maurice? Or perhaps you did?"

"If I did not, you may thank Bailey. Yes, indeed, Lucia, you contrived so well to persuade me you never would care for me that I began to imagine it was best I should marry her; that is, supposing she would have me."

"And all the while I was doing nothing but think of you, and of how wicked and ungrateful and all sorts of bad things I had been in Paris."

"And I—" etc. etc.

The rest of their conversation that morning was much like it was on other days, and certainly not worth repeating. Lucia, however, took the first opportunity of speaking to Lady Dighton about Miss Landor, and seeing that her invitation for the wedding was not neglected.

The tenth of July, Lucia's birthday and her marriage-day, came quickly to end these pleasant weeks of courtship. It was glorious weather—never bride in our English climate had more sunshine on her—and the whole county rung with the report of her wonderful beauty, and of the romantic story of these two young people, who had suddenly appeared from the unknown regions of Canada, and taken such a prominent and brilliant place in the neighbourhood.

But they troubled themselves little just then, either with their own marvellous fortunes or with the gossip of their neighbours. Out of the quaint old church where generations of Dightons had been married and buried, they came together, man and wife; and went away into "that new world which is the old," to fulfil, as they best might, the dream to which one of them had been so faithful. They went away in a great clamour of bells and voices, and left Mrs. Costello alone, to comfort herself with the thought that the changes and troubles of the past had but served to redeem its errors, and to bring her, at last, the fuller and more perfect realization of her heart's desire.

THE END.

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