Mrs. Bellairs presented her companion to her friend, and more chairs were brought out, that the new-comers might enjoy the cool breeze and shade.  Mr. Percy might have preferred a seat near Lucia; fortune, however, placed him beside her mother, and, like a wise man, he applied himself to make the best of his position.  How little trouble this cost him he did not discover until afterwards; but, in fact, he had rarely met with a woman who, by her own personal qualities, was so well fitted to inspire feelings of both friendship and respect as this quiet undemonstrative Mrs. Costello.

Lucia and Mrs. Bellairs meantime had discussed yesterday and its doings, and passed to other plans of amusement—­rides, drives, and fishing parties.  Time passed, as pleasant times often do, without anything particular being said or done, to mark its flight, and the call had lasted nearly an hour before it came to a close.

When it did, permission had been wrung from Mrs. Costello for Lucia to spend a long day with Mrs. Bellairs, at a farm in the country, which belonged, jointly, to her and her sister.  The whole family were to drive out from Cacouna in the morning, calling for Lucia, and were to bring her back in the evening.

“Let us go this way,” said Mrs. Bellairs, turning to the steps which led down into the garden.  Lucia followed her.  “You have not seen my new roses,” she said.  “Do come and look at them.”

“Bella told me you had some fine ones,” answered Mrs. Bellairs, “but I have not patience to look at my neighbours’ flowers this year, mine have been such a failure.”

“These certainly are not a failure,” said Mr. Percy, as they reached a bed of beautiful roses in full bloom.  “Have you any flower-shows in Canada?  You ought to exhibit, Miss Costello.”

Lucia laughed.  “What chance should I have?  They say an amateur never can compete with a professed gardener, and ours is all amateur work.”

“Is it possible?  Do you mean to say that you do actually cultivate your flowers with your own hands?”

“Certainly, with a little help from my friends.”  She was about to say “from Maurice,” but changed the phrase.  “If you saw me at work here in the mornings, you would at least give me credit for trying to cultivate them.”

“Should I?  You tempt me to take a peep into your Eden some morning when you are gardening.”

“Pray don’t,” she answered, laughing.  “The effects would be too dreadful.”

“What would they be?”

“The moment you caught sight of my working costume you would be seized with such a horror of Backwoods manners and customs that you would fly, not only from Cacouna, but from Canada, at the expense of I do not know what business of State.”

“I wonder why you, and so many of your neighbours, seem to think of an Englishman as if he were a fine lady.  That has not generally been the character of the race.”