An hour passed.  Lucia had entirely recovered from her little fit of sulkiness, and, to the great content of Maurice, was, if possible, even more sweet and winning than usual; but nothing had been said of the next day’s plans.  When the young man rose to leave, however, Lucia followed him out to the verandah to look at the moonlight.

“We shall have a fine day to-morrow” he said.

“Oh, Maurice,” she answered, quickly, as if she had been waiting for the opportunity of speaking, “I am sure mamma does not want me to go, and I would so much rather stay at home.  Will you go and tell Mrs. Bellairs in the morning for me?”

“Impossible!  Why Lucia, this is a mere fancy of yours.”

“Indeed it is not.  I am quite in earnest.”

“But, my dear child, Mrs. Bellairs has your mother’s promise, and I do not see how you can break a positive engagement without better reason.”

She stood silent, looking down.

“Are you thinking of that foolish conversation at dinner to-day?  I wonder Mrs. Bellairs should have repeated it.”

“It was Bella Latour who told me.”

“Ah,” said Maurice, “I forgot her.  Of course it was.  Well, at any rate, think no more of it.”

“That’s very easily said,” she answered dolorously “but I do think it’s not right,” she added with energy, the hot colour rushing into her cheeks, “to speak about one so.  It is quite impertinent.”

Maurice laughed.  “Upon my word I believe very few young ladies would agree with you; however, I assure you it would be giving the enemy an advantage to stay away to-morrow, and I suppose, if I constitute myself your highness’s body-guard, you will not be afraid of any more impertinence of the same kind.”

He said “Good-night,” and ran down the steps.  As he passed along the path under the verandah where she stood, she took one of the half-faded roses from her belt and flung it at him.  He caught it and with mock gallantry pressed it to his heart; but as he turned through the wicket and along the footpath which led to his home close by, he continued twirling the flower in his fingers.  Once it dropped, and without thinking he stooped, and picked it up.  He carried it into the house with him, and into his own room, where he laid it down upon his writing-table and forgot it.

Meanwhile, Margery had fastened doors and windows at the cottage, and soon all was silent and dark, except the glimmer of Mrs. Costello’s lamp which often burned far into the night.  Lucia had been long asleep when her mother stole into her room for that last look which it was her habit to take before she lay down.  It was a little white chamber which had been fitted up twelve years before for a child’s use; but the child had grown almost into a woman, and there were traces of her tastes and occupations all about.  There was a little book-shelf, where Puss in Boots, and Goldsmith’s History of England, still kept their places, though the Princess had stepped in between them; there was a drawing of the cottage executed under Maurice’s teaching; here was a little work-basket, and there a half-written note.  Enough moonlight stole in through the window to show distinctly the lovely dark face resting on the pillow, and surrounded by long hair, glossy, and black as jet.  Mrs. Costello stood silently by the bedside.