“Mother,” Lucia said at last, “how soon can we leave here?”

“I have thought much of that,” Mrs. Costello answered, “but we have ties here too strong to be broken suddenly; and, indeed, a hasty removal might but draw upon us the very notice we wish to avoid.”

“We must go soon though, as soon as possible.  Oh! mamma, I could not bear to stay here now.”

It was a cry of impatience—­of acute pain—­the child had suddenly turned back from her mother’s story to her own trial and loss.  Love, happiness, two hours ago clasped to her heart, and now torn from her pitilessly; for a moment she was all rebellion at the thought—­she, at least, had not sinned, why should she suffer?  Yet in her heart she knew that she must; she saw the one path clear before her, and felt that the time for acting was now; the time for grieving must come after.  She rose, and walked up and down the room, gathering her strength and courage as she could.

At last she stopped in front of her mother’s chair.  Her face was pale, but so steady and composed that its girlishness seemed gone—­she looked, what she would be from that time, a woman able to endure, and resolute to act.

“Mother,” she said quietly, “Mr. Percy is coming to-morrow morning.  He is coming to see you, but I would rather speak to him myself.  There is no need that he should know anything whatever—­of my father, or of what you have told me—­we shall never see him again.”

Except once, there was neither hesitation nor faltering in her voice, but her meaning could not be misunderstood.  For a moment Mrs. Costello felt her convictions and her judgment shaken; if, after all, this love, which Lucia was about to lose, should be true and perfect? if Percy should be capable of knowing all, and yet cherishing and prizing her?  Ought pride, ought her own opinion of him, to stand between her child and possible happiness and safety?

But she saw in Lucia’s face that underneath all her love, the same feeling, that his would not stand this shock, lay deep in her heart, and the doubt died away as suddenly as it had risen.

“Do as you will, my child,” she said.  “But think well first.  I, who have failed where I most desired to succeed, cannot venture now to advise you.”

Lucia bent down and kissed her.  “Poor mother!” she said tenderly, “you have thought too much for me, and I have never known what a burden I was to you.  But we shall do better in future—­when we are far away and have begun life again.”

The hopeful words sounded very dreary in the sweet young voice, which seemed to have changed its tone, and taken the low mournful intonation of her Indian race; but she moved calmly away, replaced the contents of the desk with care, and closed and locked it.  Then she gave the key to her mother, and bent over her again to say good-night.