Mad. de la Tour, soon after her husband’s departure, passed the gate, on a visit of charity to a neighboring cottage.  The long summer twilight was deepening on the hills, as she returned; and, with surprise, she observed Lucie loitering among a tuft of trees, which grow near the water’s edge, at a short distance from her path.  Believing she had come out to seek her, Mad. la Tour approached the spot where she stood; but Lucie’s attention was wholly engaged by a light boat which had just pushed from the shore, and rapidly neared the vessel of Arthur Stanhope, which lay at anchor below the fort.  She could not identify the only person which it contained, but a suspicion that it was Stanhope, instantly crossed her mind.  Suppressing her vexation, Mad. la Tour addressed Lucie;—­she started, and a crimson glow suffused her face, as she looked up and met the eyes of her aunt, fixed inquiringly on her.

“You are abroad at an unusual hour this evening, Lucie,” said Mad. de la Tour, without appearing to notice her confusion.

“Yes, later than I was aware,” she answered, with some hesitation; “I have been to Annette’s cottage, and was accidentally detained on my return.”

“Accidentally!” repeated Mad. de la Tour, with a look which again crimsoned the cheek of Lucie; “you were not detained by any ill tidings, I trust, though your tearful eyes betray emotions, which, you know, I love you too well to witness, without a wish to learn the cause.”

“How can you ask the cause, dear aunt, when we have just parted from so many friends, whose absence, and probable danger, cannot but leave us anxious and dejected!”

“You were not wont to indulge a gloomy or anxious spirit, Lucie; and why should you now yield to it?  Nay, but an hour or two since, you parted with apparent composure from all; and what has since happened to occasion this regret? and why should you conceal it from me, who have so long been your friend and confidant?”

“From you, dear aunt, I would conceal nothing; you have a right to know every thought and wish of my heart; but”—­

“But what?” asked Mad. la Tour, as she hesitated; “answer me one question, Lucie; has not Mr. Stanhope but just now quitted you?”

“He has,” said Lucie, deeply blushing, though her ingenuous countenance told that she was relieved from a painful reserve; “and now all is known to you,—­all,—­and more, perhaps, than I ought, at present, to have revealed.”

“More, far more, than you ought ever to have had it in your power to reveal!” said Mad. de la Tour, in an accent of displeasure; “and it is for this stranger that you have slighted the wishes of your natural guardians,—­that you have rejected the love of one, in every respect worthy of your choice!”

“Those wishes were inconsistent with my duty,” returned Lucie; “and that love I could never recompense!  Dearest aunt,” she added, and the tears again filled her eyes, “forgive me in this one instance; it is the only thought of my heart, which has been concealed from you; and, believe me, this was concealed, only to save yourself and me from reproaches, which, were I now mistress of my actions, I should not fear to meet.”