This evening might well be one of enjoyment.  It was the last that those four were ever to spend together at the Cottage.  Nearly a fortnight had passed since Mr. Bellairs and his cousin had started for Sault Ste. Marie, and they were expected back in a day or two.  The preparations for Bella’s marriage were almost completed, and Lucia was looking forward with a pleasant flutter of excitement to her own appearance as bridesmaid.  Mrs. Costello’s letter to Mr. Strafford remained unanswered, but from the circuitous route by which their communication now took place that was not wonderful; rather, indeed, the fact of having heard nothing from him seemed reassuring, and in the interval, no further incident had occurred to disturb her tranquillity.  Thus the hours that Maurice and his father spent together at the Cottage were, to the whole party, hours of a certain calm and peace, pleasant to recollect after the calm had been broken.

The next day Lucia spent almost entirely at Mrs. Bellairs’.  Bella drove her home in the evening, and when she came in she found Maurice alone on the verandah.  It was quite dusk, very nearly dark—­a soft, still, dewy evening, and she could but just distinguish his figure as he moved, to meet her.

“Is it you, Maurice?” she said.  “Is mamma there?”

“Yes, and no,” he answered; “Mrs. Costello is just gone in.”

“How is Mr. Leigh?  I have not seen him to-day.”

“No; I have been at home most of the day.”

“Is he worse then?” she said, alarmed.

“He is not quite so well, but nothing serious.  Are you tired?”

“No, not at all.  Something is the matter, Maurice.  I can hear it in your voice.”

“Nothing is the matter, I assure you.  Something unexpected has happened, but only to my father and me, and I want to talk to you about it.  That is all.”

“Something unexpected?  What?”

“Come down to the river side; it is quiet there and cool.”

They went down together; it was growing very dark, and the turf on the bank was soft and uneven.  Lucia put her hand through Maurice’s arm with her old childlike familiarity, and said,

“Why do you excite my curiosity if you don’t mean to satisfy it, you tiresome Maurice?”

“Are you in such a hurry to hear my news, then?  I feel in no such haste to tell it.  Look, do you see those lights on the river?”

“Yes.  How quickly they move!  What are they?”

“What we very seldom see here.  They are the lights Indians use in spearing fish.”

“Indians!”

Lucia’s voice was faint, and she clung to Maurice’s arm.  Surprised to feel her trembling, he said, “I intended a night or two ago to tell you to look out for them.  Surely, you are not afraid of an Indian?”

“I am a little,” she answered, trying to overcome her terror.  “But where do these come from?”

“You know the saw-mill at the other end of the town, beyond Mr. Bayne’s?  There are three or four Indians at work there, and they go out sometimes at night to fish.”