Mrs. Costello and Lucia had grown, to some degree, accustomed to their Paris life. Its novelty had at first prevented them from feeling its loneliness; but as time went on, there began to be something dreary in the absence of every friendly face, every familiar voice. Mrs. Costello would not even write to Canada until she could feel tolerably sure that her letters would only arrive after the Leighs had left; she had taken pains to find out all Mr. Leigh could tell her of Maurice's intentions, and she guessed that, for one reason or another, he would not be likely to stay longer in Cacouna than was necessary. Even when she wrote to Mrs. Bellairs she did not give her own address, but that of the banker through whom her money was transmitted.

She felt sore and angry whenever she thought of Maurice. She had perceived Mr. Leigh's embarrassed manner, and guessed, by a half-conscious reasoning of her own, that he believed his son changed towards them, but she did not guess on how very small a foundation this belief rested. She had thought it right to give up, on Lucia's behalf, any claim she had on the young man's fidelity; but to find him so very ready to accept the sacrifice, was quite another thing. It was so unlike Maurice, she said to herself; and then it occurred to her that Mr. Beresford might have planned some marriage for his grandson as a condition of his inheritance. Certainly she had heard no hint of such a thing, and up to a short time ago she was pretty sure Maurice himself could have had no idea of it; yet it was perfectly possible, and Mr. Leigh might have been warned to say nothing to her about it. All these thoughts, though Maurice might, if he had known, have been inclined to resent them, had the effect of keeping him constantly in Mrs. Costello's mind; and she puzzled over his conduct until she came to have her wishes pretty equally divided; on one hand, desiring to keep to her plan of a total separation between Lucia and him; and on the other, longing to see or hear of him, in order to know whether her former or her present opinion of him was the correct one.

It happened, therefore, that Maurice was much more frequently spoken of between the mother and daughter than should have been the case if Mrs. Costello had carried out her theories. If Lucia had been ever so little "in love" with him when she reached Paris, she would have had plenty of opportunity for increasing her fancy by dwelling on the object of it; but Mrs. Costello's wishes were forwarded by the very last means she would have chosen as her auxiliary. Lucia talked of Maurice because she thought of him as a friend, or rather as a dear brother. She said nothing of Percy, but she dreamt of him, and longed inexpressibly to hear even his name mentioned. She had heard nothing of him, except some slight casual mention, since he went away. He had said then that, perhaps in a year, she might change her mind; and she had said to herself, "Surely he will not forget me in a year." And now spring was coming round again, and all that had separated them was removed; there was not even the obstacle of distance; no Atlantic rolled between them; nay, they might be even in the same city. But how would he know? She could do nothing. She had done all in her power to make their parting final. How could she undo it now? She did not dare even to speak to her mother of him, for she knew that on that one subject alone there had never been sympathy between them. And she said to herself, too, deep in her own heart, that it must be a great love indeed which would be willing to take her—a poor, simple, half-Indian girl—and brave the world, and, above all, that terrible old earl and his pride, for her sake.

Still she dreamed and hoped, and set herself, meanwhile, all the more vigorously because of that hope, to "improve her mind." She picked up French wonderfully fast, having a tolerable foundation to go upon and a very quick ear, and she read and practised daily; beside learning various secrets of housekeeping, and attending her mother with the tenderest care. But it was very lonely. Lucia had never known what loneliness meant until those days when she sat by the window in the Champs ElysÉes and watched the busy perpetual stream of passers up and down—the movements of a world which was close round about, yet with which she had no one link of acquaintance or affection. It was very lonely; and because she could not speak out her thoughts, and say, "Is Percy here? Shall I see him some day passing, and thinking nothing of my being near him?" she said the thing that lay next in her mind, "I wish Maurice were here! Don't you, mamma?"

They had been more than a month in their new home. The routine of life had grown familiar to them; they knew the outsides, at least, of all the neighbouring shops; they had walked together to the Arc de Triomphe on the one side, and to the Rond Point on the other; they had driven to the Bois de Boulogne, and done some little sight-seeing beside. They had done all, in short, to which Mrs. Costello's strength was at present equal, and had come to a little pause, waiting for warmer weather, and for the renewal of health, which they hoped sunshine would bring her.

One afternoon Claudine had been obliged to go out, and the little apartment was unusually quiet. Mrs. Costello, tired with a morning walk, had dropped into a doze; and Lucia sat by the window, her work on her lap, and her eyes idly following the constant succession of carriages down below. To tell the truth, she constantly outraged Claudine's sense of propriety, by insisting on having one little crevice uncurtained, where she could look out into the free air; and to-day she was making use of the privilege, for want of anything more interesting indoors. She had no fear of being disturbed, for they had no visitors; in all Paris, there was not one person they knew, unless—. Percy had been there a great deal formerly, she knew, and might be there now, but he would not know where to find them if he wished it; no one could possibly come to-day. And yet the first interruption that came in the midst of the drowsy, sunny silence, was a ring at the door-bell. Lucia raised her head in surprise, and listened. Mrs. Costello slept on. Who could it be? not Claudine, for she had the key. Must she go and open the door? It seemed so, since there was no one else; and while she hesitated there was another ring, a little louder than the first.

She got up, put down her work, and went towards the door. "I wish Claudine would come," she said to herself; but Claudine was not likely to come yet, and meanwhile somebody was waiting.

"I suppose I shall have a flood of French poured over me," she thought dolorously; but there was clearly no help.

She went to the door, and opened it; a gentleman stood there—a gentleman! She uttered one little cry—

"Maurice!"

And then they were both standing inside the closed door; and he held her two hands in his, and they were looking at each other with eyes too full of joy to see well.

"Lucia!" he said; "just yourself." But somehow his voice was not quite steady, and he dare not trust it any further.

"We wanted you so, and you are come. Oh, Maurice! you are good to find us so soon!"

"Did you think I should not?"

"I cannot tell. How could you know where we were?"

"I went to Chester, and asked."

"To Chester? To my cousin's? Just to find us out?"

"Why not? Did not you know perfectly well that my first thought when I was free would be to find you?"

He spoke half laughing, but there was no mistaking his earnestness in the matter; was not he here to prove it? Tears came very fast to Lucia's eyes. This was really like the old happy days coming back.

"Come in," she said, "mamma is here." But mamma still slept undisturbed, for their tones had been low in the greatness of their joy; and Maurice drew Lucia back, and would not let her awake her.

"She looks very tired," he said rather hypocritically; "and it will be time enough to see me when she awakes. Don't disturb her."

Lucia looked at her mother anxiously. She knew this sleep was good for the invalid, and yet it might last an hour, and how could she wait all that time for the thousand things she wanted to hear from Maurice? The door of their tiny salle À manger stood a little open.

"Come in here, then," she said, "we shall be able to see when she wakes—and I must talk to you."

Maurice followed obediently—this was better than his hopes, to have Lucia all to himself for the first half hour. She made him sit down in such a manner that he could not be seen by Mrs. Costello, while she herself could see through the open door and watch for her mother's waking.

"And now tell me," she asked, "have you been back to Canada?"

"I started the moment I could leave England after my grandfather's death, but when I reached Cacouna you were gone."

"Dear old home! I suppose all looked just as usual?"

"Nothing looked as usual to me. As I came up the river I saw that the cottage was deserted, and that changed all the rest. But indeed I had had a tolerable certainty before that you were gone."

"How?"

"Do you remember meeting a Cunard steamer two days out at sea?"

"You were on board? How I strained my eyes to see if I could distinguish you!"

"Did you? And I too. But though I could not see you, I felt that you were on board the ship we met."

"I was sitting on deck, longing for a telescope. Well, it is all right now. Did you bring Mr. Leigh home?"

"Yes; he is at Hunsdon, safe and well."

"Hunsdon is your house now, is not it? Tell me what it is like?"

"A great square place, with a huge white portico in front—very ugly, to tell the truth; but you would like the park, Lucia, and the trees."

"It must be very grand. Does it feel very nice to be rich?"

"That depends on circumstances. But now do you think you are to ask all the questions and answer none?"

"No, indeed. There is one answer."

"Do you like Paris?"

"Well enough. It is very lonely here without anybody."

"Are you going to stay here?"

"For a month or two, I think."

"You will not be quite so lonely then in future—at least if I may come to see you."

"May come? That is a new idea. But are you going to stay in Paris, too?"

"I must stay for a few weeks. And I expect my cousin Lady Dighton over soon, and she wants to know you."

"To know us? Oh, Maurice! you forget what a little country girl I am, and mamma, poor mamma is not well enough to go out at all, scarcely."

"Is she such an invalid, really? Have you had advice for her?"

"It is disease of the heart," Lucia said in a very low sorrowful tone, all her gaiety disappearing before the terrible idea—"the only thing that is good for her is to be quiet and happy—and the last few months have been so dreadful, she has suffered so."

"And you? But I have heard all. Lucia, I would have given all I am worth in the world to have been able to help you."

"I often wished for you, especially when I used to fear that our old friends would desert us. I never thought you would."

"There is some comfort in that. Promise that whatever may come, you will always trust me."

He held out his hand, and Lucia put hers frankly in it.

Just at that moment there was a stir, and Mrs. Costello called "Lucia."