sitting together, talking softly.  They had been speaking of the last few months—­not saying much—­but growing into a closer sympathy with each other, as they understood how great had been their community of sorrow, than they had ever felt in the unclouded years of their girlish friendship.  It was long since Lucia had given up her fancies about Bella’s marriage.  The shock of her widowhood had shaken off all the gay affectations of the bride and brought her within the comprehension of Lucia’s steadier and more transparent nature.  And now that the secret which had stood so grimly between them was told, nothing remained to spoil the comfort of their intercourse.

Except its shortness.  While they talked, an occasional sentence spoken by one or other of the elder group reached their ears, and once they stopped their conversation to listen.  Mrs. Costello was saying, in answer to some question—­

“To France, I think.  Indeed I am sure we shall go there first.”

“But,” said Mrs. Bellairs, “such a voyage at this time of year!  Do wait till spring.”

“Except that it will be cold, I do not think the voyage will be worse now than at any other time,” Mrs. Costello answered quietly.

“But, Lucia!” said Bella, “surely you are not going away now?”

“It seems that we are.  Mamma has said nothing to me about it to-day, and I thought she might have given up the idea.”

“Until to-day, then, you knew she intended it?”

“Yes.”  Lucia’s cheeks grew rosy as she answered, for she remembered why the idea of European travel had seemed pleasant to her.  One word from her companion might have set all those fluttering thoughts and hopes at rest; but Bella guessed nothing of them, and neither saw Lucia’s change of colour, nor, if she had seen it, would have understood its cause.

“Do you think you will be long away?” she asked.

“I have no idea now.  I think that before, mamma did not mean to come back at all.”

“And you can leave Canada, and all of us so easily?”

“Oh! no, no;” and Lucia blushed more deeply than before.  “Oh!  Bella, I am a real Canadian girl.  I should long for Canada again often, often, if I were away,—­and for all of you.”

“I don’t see,” Bella said, half sadly, half crossly, “what good it does people to go away.  There is Maurice, who seems to have everything he can wish for, and yet, according to Mr. Leigh, he is perfectly restless and miserable, and wants to come back.”

“Poor Maurice! if he is coming back I wish he would come before we go; but I suppose he cannot leave while Mr. Beresford lives.”

“I don’t see why you should care.  You will see him in England; shan’t you?”

“No.  Mamma can’t go to England.  But perhaps he might come over to see us in France, if we stop there.”

“Of course, he will.  And if by that time you are both home sick, you can come out together again, you know.”