“Are English sunsets as lovely as ours, Mamma?”

Mrs. Costello smiled.  “I can’t tell,” she said; “they are as lovely to me,—­but I only see them in memory.”

“You have often talked about going home, when shall it be?”

“I have talked of your going, not of mine—­that will never be.”

“Mamma!” Lucia raised her head.  She looked at her mother inquiringly, but somehow she felt that Mrs. Costello could not talk to her just then.  A troubled expression crossed her own face for a moment, then she put down the ball of wool and laid her arms caressingly round her mother’s waist.

But both again remained silent for many minutes, so silent that the faint wash of the river against the bank sounded plainly, and a woodpecker could be heard making his last tap-tap on a tree by the garden-gate.

By-and-by Mrs. Costello spoke again, as if there had been no interruption.  “But about this picnic, Lucia; do you think it would be a great sacrifice to give it up?”

“A great sacrifice?  Why, mamma, you must think me a baby to ask such a question.  I stayed away from the best one last summer without breaking my heart.”

“Last summer I thought you too young for large parties, but this year I have let you go—­and, indeed, I do not forbid your going this time.  Understand that clearly, my child.  I have only fancy, not reason, to set against your wishes.”

“Mother, you are not fanciful.  Since you wish me to stay at home, I wish it also.  Forget the picnic altogether.”

She sprang up, kissed her mother’s forehead, and darted away to the further end of the verandah, bursting out into a gay song as she leaned over to gather a spray of pale prairie roses that climbed up the trellis-work.  The pretty scentless blossoms were but just caught, when a rattling of wheels was heard on the stony lane which led from the high-road to the cottage.

“Who can be coming now?  Margery is out, mamma, and the gate is fastened; I must go and open it.”

She darted into the house on her errand—­for the principal entrance was in the gable end of the building—­but before she had had time to cross the parlour and hall to the outer door, the little garden-gate opened, and a very pretty woman in a grey cloak and straw hat came through, and up the verandah steps with the air of a person perfectly at home.

Mrs. Costello rose to meet her with an exclamation.

“Mrs. Bellairs!  We never thought of it being you.  Lucia is gone to open the gate.”

“I found the little one open; so I left Bella to take care of Bob, and came round.  In fact, I ought not to be here at all, but as I wanted to persuade you about to-morrow, I ran away the moment dinner was over, and must run back again instantly.”

“Sit down, at any rate, while you are here.”

She sat down, and taking off her hat, threw it on the floor.