And yet, these last weeks of her girlhood were almost too happy.  She went over several times with her mother and Lady Dighton to Hunsdon, and grew familiar with her future home; she saw the charming rooms that were being prepared for herself, and could sit down in the midst of all this new wealth and luxury, and talk with Maurice about the old times when they had no splendour, but little less happiness than now; and she had delicious hours of castle-building, sometimes alone, sometimes with her betrothed, which were pleasanter than any actual realization of their dreams could be.

Of course, they had endless talks, in which they said the same things over and over again, or said nothing at all; but they knew each other so thoroughly now, and each was so completely acquainted with all the other’s past that there was truly nothing for them to tell or to hear, except the one old story which is always new.

One day, however, Maurice came over to Dighton in a great hurry, with a letter for Lucia to read.  He took her out into the garden, and when they were quite alone he took it out and showed it to her.

“What is it?” she said.  “It looks like a French letter.”

“It is French.  Do you remember your friend, Father Paul?”

“Of course.  Oh, Maurice! it cannot be about Bailey?”

“Indeed, it is.  But don’t look frightened.  I wrote to Father Paul, and this is his answer.”

“What made you write?”

“Did not I say I would pension Bailey? I don’t forget my promises if other people do.”

“Surely, you were only joking?”

“Very far from it, I assure you.  Your good friend undertook to manage it, and he writes to me that my letter only arrived in time; that Bailey was ill, and quite dependent on charity, and that he is willing to administer the money I send in small doses suitable to the patient’s condition.”

“But, Maurice, it is perfect nonsense.  Why should you give money to that wretched man? We might, indeed, do something for him.”

“Who are ‘we?’ You had better be careful at present how you use your personal pronouns.”

“I meant mamma and I might, of course.”

“I do not see the ‘of course’ at all.  Mamma has nothing whatever to do with it—­nor even you.  This is simply a mark of gratitude to Mr. Bailey for a service he did me lately.”

Lucia let her hand rest a little less lightly on Maurice’s arm.

“And me too,” she said softly.

“Use your ‘we’ in its right sense, then, and we will reward him.  But not unless you are sure that you do not repent having been frightened.”

“Ah! you don’t know how glad I was when mamma made me write that note.  It did better than the one I tore up.”

“What was that?  Did you tear one up?”

“Yes.  After all, I don’t believe you were as miserable as I was; for I wrote once; I did actually write and ask you to come—­only I tore up the note—­and you were consoling yourself with Miss Landor.”