“Happily indeed.  I did not even see your boat.”

“We were too close under the bank most of the time.  At the landing, there was a canoe lying, with a man in it, most likely waiting for that brute.  You see he is gone down towards it.”

Lucia shuddered.  “I think I should have fallen down in another minute.  I looked round once, and saw such a horrible face, red and swollen and frightful, with the hair all hanging about it.  I shall never forget it.”

“Don’t speak of it at present.  You see it is not safe for you to go about alone.”

“But I never was frightened before.  Now, I believe I shall be, always.”

“And I shall not be here again.  I was coming to-night to tell you that I am summoned home.”

They stopped involuntarily, and their eyes met.  There was an equal trouble in both faces.  Lucia was the first to recover herself; she made a movement to go on, and tried to speak, but felt instantly that her voice could not be trusted.

Mr. Percy’s prudence failed utterly.  “I meant to say good-bye” he said, “but it is harder than I thought.  I can’t leave you here, after all.  Lucia, you must come with me.”

He was holding her hand, forcing her to stop and to look at him, and finding in her beautiful, innocent face the sweetest excuse a man could have for such madness.  Madness it must have been, for he had wholly forgotten himself, and all his life had taught him; and for the moment felt that this girl, who loved him, was worth more than everything else in the world would be without her.

That night Lucia saw nothing of the sunset.  Dusk came on, and the fireflies began to flit round them, before the two, who were so occupied with each other, came to the Cottage gate.  When they did so, they had yet a few last words to say.

“What will mamma say?” Lucia half whispered.  “I am almost afraid to see her.”

“Will you tell her or shall I?  Which shall you like best?  I will come in the morning.”

“I shall not sleep to-night if she does not know.  I suppose I must tell her, if you will not come in now.”

“Not now.  I must arrange my thoughts a little first.  After all, Lucia, you don’t know how little I have to offer you.”

“What does that matter?” she asked simply.  “Mamma will not care—­nor I.”

“You will not, of course.  You would be content to live like a bird, on next to nothing; but then you know nothing of the world.”

“No, indeed.  I am nothing better than a baby.”

“You are a million times better than any other woman, and will make the best and dearest of wives—­if you had only a luckier fellow for a husband.”

“Are you unlucky, really?  Are you very poor?”

“Poor enough for a hermit.  My father is not much richer; and as I have the good fortune to be a younger son, the little he has will go to George, my elder brother, not to me.”