“Come into the garden for a minute,” he said.  “It is growing cool now, and the air from the river is so pleasant.”

She obeyed, and they wandered down the garden together.  But the minute lengthened to twenty before they came back, and parted at the wicket.  Lucia went slowly up the steps, disinclined to go in out of the sunshine, which suited her mood.  Mrs. Costello had left her chair and her work on the verandah and gone indoors.  Lucia picked up a fallen knitting-needle, and carried it into the parlour; but as she passed the doorway she saw her mother sitting in her own low chair, her head fallen forward, and her whole attitude strange and unnatural.

Lucia uttered a cry of terror; she sprang to Mrs. Costello’s side, and tried to raise her, but the inanimate figure slipped from her arms.  She called Margery, and together they lifted her mother and laid her on her bed.  The first inexpressible fear soon passed away—­it was but a deep fainting fit, which began to yield to their remedies.  As soon as this became evident, Lucia had time to wonder what could have caused so sudden an illness.  She remembered having seen a letter lying on the table beside her mother, and the moment she could safely leave the bedside she went in search of it.  It was only an empty envelope, but as she moved away her dress rustled against a paper on the floor, which she picked up and found to be the letter itself.  Without any other thought than that her mother must have received a shock which this might explain, she opened the half-folded sheet and hastily read the contents.  They were short, and in a hand she knew well—­that of a clergyman who was an old and trusted friend of Mrs. Costello.  This was his letter:—­

“My dear friend,

“I was just about writing to say that I would obey your summons, and steal two or three days next week from my work to visit you, when a piece of information reached me, which has caused me, for your sake, to defer my journey.  Perhaps you can guess what it is.  You have too often expressed your fears of C.’s return to be surprised at their fulfilment, but I grieve to have to add to your anxieties at this moment by telling you that he is really in this neighbourhood.  I have not seen him, but one of my people, Mary Wanita, who remembers you affectionately, brought me the news.  You may depend upon my guarding, with the utmost care, my knowledge of your retreat; but I thought it best to prepare you for the possibility of discovery, lest he should present himself unexpectedly to you or to Lucia.  If the matter on which you wished to consult me is one that can be entrusted to a letter, write fully, and I will give you the best advice I can; but send your letter to the post-office at Claremont, on the American side, and I will myself call there for it.  I shall also post my letters to you there for the present.

“With every good wish for you and for your child, believe me, sincerely yours,
                                       “A.  STRAFFORD.”