“The barrier exists in your own mind only, mother,” was his answer, spoken sadly.  “Sibylla would be a loving daughter to you, if you would allow her so to be.”

A slight, haughty shake of the head, suppressed at once, was the reply of Lady Verner.  “I had looked for a different daughter,” she continued.  “I had hoped for Mary Elmsley.”

“Upon this point, at any rate, there need be no misunderstanding,” returned Lionel.  “Believe me once for all, mother:  I should never have married Mary Elmsley.  Had I and Sibylla remained apart for life, separated as wide as the two poles, it is not Mary Elmsley whom I should have made my wife.  It is more than probable that my choice would have pleased you only in a degree more than it does now.”

The jealous ears of Lady Verner detected an undercurrent of meaning in the words.

“You speak just as though you had some one in particular in your thoughts!” she uttered.

It recalled Lucy, it recalled the past connected with her, all too plainly to his mind; and he returned an evasive answer.  He never willingly recalled her:  or it:  if they obtruded themselves on his memory—­as they very often did—­he drove them away, as he was driving them now.

He quitted the house, and Lady Verner proceeded upstairs to Decima’s room—­that pretty room, with its blue panels and hangings, where Lionel used to be when he was growing convalescent.  Decima and Lucy were in it now.  “I wish you to go out with me to make a call,” she said to them.

“Both of us, mamma?” inquired Decima.

“Both,” repeated Lady Verner.  “It is a call of etiquette,” she added, a sound of irony mixing in the tone, “and, therefore, you must both make it.  It is to Lionel’s chosen wife.”

A hot flush passed into the face of Lucy Tempest; hot words rose to her lips.  Hasty, thoughtless, impulsive words, to the effect that she could not pay a visit to the chosen wife of Lionel Verner.

But she checked them ere they were spoken.  She turned to the window, which had been opened to the early spring day, and suffered the cool air to blow on her flushed face, and calmed down her impetuous thoughts.  Was this the course of conduct that she had marked out for herself?  She looked round at Lady Verner and said, in a gentle tone, that she would be ready at any hour named.

“We will go at once,” replied Lady Verner.  “I have ordered the carriage.  The sooner we make it—­as we have to make it—­the better.”

There was no mistake about it.  Lucy had grown to love Lionel Verner. How she loved him, esteemed him, venerated him, none, save her own heart, could tell.  Her days had been as one long dream of Eden.  The very aspect of the world had changed.  The blue sky, the soft-breathing wind, the scent of the budding flowers, had spoken a language to her, never before learned:  “Rejoice in us, for we are lovely!” It was the strange bliss in her own