“‘Ill’ is perhaps too strong a word.  Besides, she has always said she was well.”

“Yes.  But I know she has been”—­in trouble, she was going to say, but stopped—­“suffering.”

“Perhaps you may be able to nurse her a little now, since she will be obliged to own herself an invalid.”

“I shall try.  Will you come in for a moment, in the morning?”

“Yes.  Good night now.  Do not be too anxious.”

He went out, glad at heart because of those few words of hers, which showed how naturally she still depended on him, when help of any kind was needed.

Mrs. Costello had lain, during his visit, listening to the faint sound of their voices, which just reached her through the half-open door of her room.

She turned her head restlessly as she listened.  “If it could have been,” she thought, “he would have been the same to her through all—­but the other, how could I tell him even?  Truly, I believe he would forgive crime, more readily than misery like mine.  And I must tell her.”

Lucia came back softly into the room, and to the bedside; looking, with her newly awakened fears, at her mother’s face, she saw plainly how worn it was; it seemed, in truth, to have grown years older in the last few weeks.  A pang of remorse shot through her heart; she stooped and kissed her with unusual tenderness, and then turned away to hide the tears which self-reproach had brought to her eyes.  Mrs. Costello caught her hand, and smiling, asked what news Maurice had brought?

“None, mamma.  He came to ask about you.”

“But had he nothing to tell you about the Scotts?”

“I forgot to ask him, and I believe he forgot to tell me.”

“You must have been very much interested to forget such an event as a party the moment it was over.”

“We were only talking about you.  Maurice says you have been looking ill.”

“Maurice is a foolish boy.  I have been a little worried, but that is all.”

Lucia gathered all her courage.  “But, dear mother, why do you always give me that answer?  Why not tell me what it is that troubles you?”

Mrs. Costello shrank back.  “Not yet, darling.  I am a coward, and should have to tell you a long story.  Wait awhile.”

“And while I wait, you suffer alone.”

“I should not suffer less, my child, if you knew all.  For your own sake I have not yet shared my troubles, such as they are, with you; for your own sake I see that I must soon do so.  Leave me at present to decide, if I can, what is best for us both.”

Lucia was silent.  She saw that even this short conversation had disturbed, instead of comforting her mother; she dared not therefore say more, and could only busy herself in arranging everything with affectionate care for her comfort during the night.