The two lights, which had been but just visible when they first came out, flitting here and there through the darkness, had now approached much nearer, so that the canoes could be plainly distinguished.  They were quite small, and each contained two men, one sitting down in the stern, a dark undefined shadow, scarcely seen except for the occasional flash of his paddle in the light; the other standing at the prow in the full glare of the fire which burned there, and lit up his wild half-naked figure and the long fish-spear in his hand.  As the canoe moved from place to place, they could see the spear dart swiftly into the water, and the sparkle of wet scales as the fish was brought up and thrown into the boat.

Lucia’s terror had at first overpowered her curiosity, and as it subsided, she was, for a minute or two, too much interested in the novel sight to renew her questions.  As for Maurice, he was, as he had said, in no haste to speak.

It was pleasant to have her for a little while all to himself, pleasant to feel her hand resting more closely on his arm as if he could protect her, even from her own foolish fear, and all was the sweeter, because it might be for the last time.  At last, however, she said again,

“But tell me what you were going to.  What has happened?”

“One thing that has happened,” he replied, rousing himself, “is that I have heard more family history than I knew before.  Do you care to hear that?”

“Yes; I should like to if you don’t mind.”

“Well, you know that my father and mother came out here from England many years ago, directly after their marriage.  This marriage, it appears, was disapproved of by my mother’s family—­was a runaway match, indeed, and never forgiven even to the time of her death.”

“Oh, Maurice! and were her father and mother alive?”

“Her father was, and still is.  She was an only daughter, with but one brother; and my grandfather, who is a Norfolk gentleman of large property, expected her, reasonably enough, to marry a man who was her equal in fortune.  However, she chose to marry my father, who was then a soldier, a poor lieutenant, with little money, and equally little prospect of rising.  I don’t know whether women are very wise or very foolish, Lucia, but they seem to see things with different eyes to men.  My mother chose to marry, then, though my father was poor, and certain to remain so; though she was a gay spoiled girl of just twenty-one, and he a grave man not much under forty.  He sold out, and they came here.  I don’t believe she ever was unhappy, or repented her marriage, and my father while she lived had all he cared for; since her death, indeed, there has been sorrow after sorrow.”

Maurice stopped a moment.

“But you know all that,” he said hastily, and went on.  “My mother wrote several times to her father and to her brother, first after her arrival in Canada, then after the birth of her eldest child, and last of all just before she died; but no answer ever came.  After her death my father, as she wished, wrote again, but until this morning he had heard nothing from my grandfather for all these six-and-twenty years.”