As Lucia went up the staircase, the slight stimulus of excitement which Maurice's presence had supplied, died out, and she began to be conscious of a horrible depression and sense of vacancy. She went up with a step that grew more tired and languid at every movement, till she reached the door where Claudine was having a little gossip with the concierge.

She was glad even to be saved the trouble of ringing, and glided past the two "like a ghaist," and came into her mother's presence with that same weary gait and white face. It was not even until Mrs. Costello rose in alarm and surprise with anxious questions on her lips that the poor child became aware of the change in herself.

"I am tired," she said. "I have such a headache, mamma," and she tried to wake herself out of her bewilderment and look natural.

"Where is Maurice?"

"He is gone—he is coming back this evening, I think he said."

Mrs. Costello guessed instantly that Maurice was the cause of Lucia's disturbance.

"Poor child!" she thought; "it could not help but be a surprise to her. I wonder if all is going well?" But she dared not speak of that subject just yet.

"You must have walked much too far," she said aloud. "Go and lie down, darling—I will come with you."

Lucia obeyed. She was actually physically tired, as she said, and her head did ache with a dull heavy pain. Mrs. Costello arranged the pillows, drew warm coverings over her, and left her without one further question; for she was completely persuaded of the truth of her own surmise, and feared to endanger Maurice's hopes and her own favourite plan by an injudicious word. She did not go far away, however, and Lucia, still conscious of her nearness, dared not move or sigh. With her face pressed close to the pillow, she could let the hot tears which seemed to scald her eyes drop from under the half-closed lids; but after a little while, the warmth and stillness and her fatigue began to have their effect. The tears ceased to drop, the one hand which had grasped the edge of the covering relaxed, and she dropped asleep.

By-and-by Mrs. Costello came in softly, and stood looking at her. She lay just like a child with her pale cheeks still wet, and the long black lashes glistening. Her little hand, so slender and finely shaped, rested lightly against the pillow; her soft regular breathing just broke the complete stillness enough to give the aspect of sleep, instead of that of death. She was fair enough, in her sweet girlish beauty and innocence, to have been a poet's or an artist's inspiration. The mother's eyes grew very dim as she looked at her child, but she never guessed that there had been more than the stir of surprise in her heart that day—that she was "sleeping for sorrow."

It was twilight in the room when Lucia woke. She came slowly to the recollection of the past, and the consciousness of the present, and without moving began to gather up her thoughts and understand what had happened to her, and why she had slept. The door was ajar, and voices could be faintly heard talking in the salon. She even distinguished her mother's tones, and Lady Dighton's, but there were no others. It was a relief to her. She thought she ought to get up and go to them, but if Maurice had been there, or even Sir John, she felt that her courage would have failed. She raised herself up, and pushed back her disordered hair; with a hand pressed to each temple, she tried to realize how she had awoke that very morning, hopeful and happy, and that she had had a dreadful loss which was her own—only hers, and could meet with no sympathy from others. But then she remembered that it had met with sympathy already—not much in words, but in tone and look and action—from the one unfailing friend of her whole life. Maurice knew—Maurice did not contemn her—there was a little humiliation in the thought, but more sweetness. She went over the whole scene in the chapel, and for the first time there came into her mind a sense of the inexpressible tenderness which had soothed her as she sat there half stupefied.

"Dear Maurice!" she said to herself, and then as her recollection grew more vivid, a sudden shame seized her—neck and arms and brow were crimson in a moment, with the shock of the new idea—and she sprang up and began to dress, in hopes to escape from it by motion.

But before she was ready to leave the room her sorrow had come back, too strong and bitter to leave place for other thoughts. The vivid hope of Percy's faithful recollection enduring at least for a year, had come to give her strength and courage in the very time when her youthful energies had almost broken down under the weight of so many troubles; it had been a kind of prop on which she leaned through her last partings and anxieties, and which seemed to be the very foundation of her recent content. To have it struck away from her suddenly, left her helpless and confused; her own natural forces, or the support of others, might presently supply its place, but for the moment she did not know where to look to satisfy the terrible want.

She went out, however, to face her small world, with what resolution she could muster, and was not a little glad that the dim light would save her looks from any close scrutiny.

Lady Dighton had been paying a long visit to Mrs. Costello, and the two perfectly understood each other. They both thought, also, that they understood what had occurred that morning, and why Lucia had a headache. Maurice had not made his appearance at his cousin's luncheon, as she expected, but that was not wonderful. Lady Dighton, however, had said to Mrs. Costello,

"It is quite extraordinary to me how Lucia can have seen Maurice's perfect devotion to her, and not perceived that it was more than brotherly."

Mrs. Costello did not feel bound to explain that Lucia's thoughts, as far as they had ever been occupied at all with love, had been drawn away in quite a different direction, so she contented herself with answering,

"She is very childish in some things, and she has been all her life accustomed to think of him as a brother. I knew he would have some difficulty at first in persuading her to think otherwise."

"He can't have failed?"

"I hope not. She has not told me anything, and therefore I do not suppose there is anything decisive to tell."

After their conversation the two naturally looked with interest for Lucia's coming. They heard her stirring, and exchanged a few more words,

"Perhaps we shall know now?"

"At any rate, Maurice will enlighten us when he arrives."

Lucia came in, gliding silently through the dim light. Her quiet movement was unconscious—she would have chosen to appear more, rather than less, animated than usual. Lady Dighton came forward to meet her.

"So you walked too far this morning?" she said. "I think it was a little too bad when you knew I was coming to see you to-day."

"I did not think I should be so tired," Lucia answered, and the friendly dusk hid her blush at her own disingenuousness.

"Are you quite rested, my child?" Mrs. Costello asked anxiously.

"Yes, mamma. My head aches a little still, but it will soon be better, I dare say. I am ashamed of being so lazy."

"Where is Maurice?" said Lady Dighton. "I expected to have found him here, as he did not come in for lunch."

"Has he not been with you then? He left me at the door, and said he would come back this evening."

"He has not been with me, certainly, though he promised to be. I thought you were answerable for his absence."

Lucia did not reply. Her heart beat fast, and the last words kept ringing in her ears, "you were answerable for his absence." Was she answerable for any doings of Maurice's? Had that morning's meeting, so strange and sudden for her, disturbed him too? She could only be silent and feel as if she had been accused, justly accused—but of what?

Meanwhile, her silence, which was not that of indifference, seemed to prove that the conjectures of the other two were right. They even ventured to exchange glances of intelligence, but Mrs. Costello hastened to fill up the break in the conversation.

"Is it true," she inquired of her visitor, "that you talk of going home next week?"

"Yes; we only came for a fortnight at the longest; and as the affair which brought us over seems to be happily progressing, there is no reason for delay."

"Oh! I am sorry," Lucia said impulsively. "Maurice goes with you, does not he?"

"Cela dÉpend—he is not obliged to go just then, I suppose?"

"But surely he ought. We must make him go."

"And yet you would be sorry to lose him?"

"Of course; only—"

Another of those unexplained pauses! It was certainly a tantalizing state of affairs, though, in fact, this last one did but mean, "only he must be neglecting his affairs while he stops here." Lucia merely broke off because she felt as if Lady Dighton might think the words an impertinence.

Soon after this they parted. Something was said about to-morrow, but they finally left all arrangements to be made when Maurice should appear, which it was supposed he would do at dinner to the Dightons, and after it to the Costellos.

Dinner had been long over in the little apartment in the Champs ElysÉes when Maurice arrived there. The mother and daughter were sitting together as usual, but in unusual silence—Lucia absorbed in thought, Mrs. Costello watching and wondering, but still refraining from asking questions. Maurice came in, looking pale and tired. Lucia got up, and drew a chair for him near her mother. It was done with a double object; she wanted to express her grateful affection, and she wanted to manage so as to be herself out of his sight. He neither resisted her manoeuvre nor even saw it, but sat down wearily and began to reply to her mother's questions.

"I have been out of town. I had seen nothing of the country round Paris, so I thought I would make an excursion."

"An excursion all alone?"

"Yes; I have been to St. Denis."

"How did you go?"

"By rail. I started to come back by an omnibus I saw out there, but I did not much care about that mode of conveyance, so I got out and walked."

"Have you seen Lady Dighton?"

"I have seen no one. I am but just come back."

"Maurice! Have you not dined, then?"

"No. Never mind that. I will have some tea with you, please, by-and-by."

But Lucia had received a glance from her mother, and was gone already to try what Claudine's resources could produce. Mrs. Costello leaned forward, and laid her hand entreatingly on Maurice's arm,

"Tell me what all this means?" she said.

He tried to smile as he returned her look, but his eyes fell before the earnestness of hers.

"What what means?" he asked.

"Both you and Lucia know something I don't know," she answered. "I would rather question you than her. Has she troubled you?"

"Not in the way you think," he answered quickly. "I have partly changed my plans. I shall be obliged to go back to England with my cousin. Don't question Lucia, dear Mrs. Costello, let her be in peace for awhile."

"In peace? But she has been in peace—happy as the day was long, lately."

"She is disturbed now—yes, it is my fault—and I will do penance for it. You understand I do not give up my hopes—I only defer them."

"But, Maurice, I don't understand. You are neither changeable, nor likely to give Lucia any excuse for being foolish. Why should you go away? She exclaimed how sorry she was when your cousin spoke of it."

"Did she? But I am only a brother to her yet. Don't try to win more just now for me, lest she should give me less."

"Well, of course, you know your own affairs best. But it is totally incomprehensible to me."

Maurice leaned his head upon his hands. He had had a miserable day, and was feeling broken down and wretched. He spoke hopefully, but in his heart he doubted whether it would not be better to give Lucia up at once and altogether, only he had a strong suspicion that to give her up was not a thing within the power of his will.