“No indeed.  I will bring my work in here and sit by you.”

“Will Maurice be here to-night?”

“He is at the Scotts.”

“True, I forgot.  We shall be alone, then?”

It was a question; a month ago it would have been an assertion; and Lucia answered, “Yes.”

“Then we may arrange ourselves here without fear of interruption,” Mrs. Costello said more cheerfully.  “Bring a book, instead of your work, and read to me.”

She did not then intend to explain Mr. Strafford’s letter.  Lucia had almost hoped it, but on the other hand she feared, as perhaps her mother did, to renew the afternoon’s excitement.

So, after tea, she took the last new book and read.  Mrs. Costello lay with her face shaded; she had much to think of,—­only old debatings with herself to go over again for the thousandth time; but all her doubts, her wishes, her fears quickened into new life by the threatened discovery, of which the letter lying under her pillow had warned her; and the changes which a multitude of recollections brought to her countenance were not for her child, still ignorant of all the past, to see.

The evening passed quickly in this tumult of thoughts.  Lucia was interested in her story, and read on until ten o’clock, when Margery came in.

“Mr. Maurice, Miss Lucia.  He came in at the back, just to ask how your mamma is.  Will you speak to him?”

Lucia went out.  Maurice was standing in the dark parlour, and she almost ran against him.  He put his hand lightly on her shoulder, as he asked his question.

“She is better, very much better,” she answered.  “But I was frightened at first.”

“Do you think it is only a passing affair?  Are you afraid to be alone to-night?”

“Not at all.  Oh!  Maurice, why do you ask such a question?  She was quite well this morning.”

“She has not looked well for some time.  But I did not mean to alarm you, only to remind you that if you should want anything, I am always close at hand.”

He had alarmed her a little for the moment.  She thought, “I have been occupied with myself, and she has been ill perhaps for days past.”  Maurice felt her tremble, and blamed himself for speaking.  At that instant they seemed to have returned to their old life.  The very attitude in which they stood, in which they had been used to have their most confidential chats, had lately been disused; and to resume it, and with it the old position of adviser and consoler, was compensation for much that he had suffered.  He felt that Lucia was looking anxiously up at him—­that she had for the moment quite forgotten all except her mother and himself.

“The weather has been so hot,” he said, searching for something to hide his thoughts, “it is not wonderful for any one to be weakened by it.  No doubt, that was the reason of Mrs. Costello’s illness.”  Lucia remembered the letter and was silent.  Then she said, “Have you really thought her looking ill lately?”