In the evening, quite late, Maurice came in.  He said his father was much better.  Lucia’s long visit had cheered him and done him good, and he hoped in a day or two to be able to get out a little.  Lucia was very quiet during Maurice’s stay; it would not have been easy to say whether she was happy or sorrowful.  She sat in her low chair and thought of yesterday, of the night and her dream, of old Mr. Leigh sitting alone in his dreary house so many hours each day, of his pleasure at seeing her, of Mr. Percy’s absence; finally, of the comfort and pleasantness of sitting there undisturbed and hearing the voices of her mother and Maurice gradually subsiding into a drowsy hum.  The next thing she knew Maurice was saying softly, “She is asleep.  Don’t wake her, Mrs. Costello.  Good-night.”  And she woke just in time to catch the last glimpse of his figure as he went out.

The next day’s consultation with Bella about dresses was only the first of many, in which the arrangements for the wedding were completely settled.  Lucia and Magdalen Scott were to be bridesmaids; Harry Scott and Maurice, groomsmen; and the ceremony was to take place in the house, according to a whim of the bride, who did not choose to exhibit her own and her friends’ pretty dresses in the church—­“a great ugly barn.”

Lucia had also a daily visit to Mr. Leigh to occupy her.  He was recovering from his slight attack of illness, and enjoyed her lively talk and affectionate care.  One day he even let her persuade him to walk, with her assistance, as far as the Cottage; and when she had established him in the most comfortable chair beside her mother, he was so content with the change that Maurice, coming home from Cacouna, was met by the unheard-of announcement, “Mr. Leigh is out.”

He followed the truant, and found him in no hurry to return.  The two elder people, indeed, both enjoyed this visit, which seemed to carry them back to a time brighter than the present.  They talked of trifles, but of trifles which were in a kind of harmony with the happier days of both.  Lucia, sitting at the door, where she could see the sunny landscape and the river, listened idly to their talk, but mixed it with her own girlish fancies; while near to her Maurice sat down, glad of the homelike rest of the moment, glad of the friendly look of welcome with which she met him; knowing distinctly that if at that moment he had asked her for anything more than friendship, she would have been shocked and distressed, but willing to enjoy to the utmost all the happiness her present and grateful regard could give him.  Not that he was content; an unspeakable longing to get rid of all this veil of reserve, to make her understand what she was so blind to, to carry her off from all the frivolities which came between them, and make her love him as he thought she might love, lay deep down in his heart and swelled up, at times almost uncontrollably.  But she never guessed it, and never should, unless, perhaps, time should bring her a harder discipline than his.  Then, if ever she came to want love, to want happiness, it would be his opportunity; at present, he could still wait.