not forget me in a year.”  And now spring was coming round again, and all that had separated them was removed; there was not even the obstacle of distance; no Atlantic rolled between them; nay, they might be even in the same city.  But how would he know?  She could do nothing.  She had done all in her power to make their parting final.  How could she undo it now?  She did not dare even to speak to her mother of him, for she knew that on that one subject alone there had never been sympathy between them.  And she said to herself, too, deep in her own heart, that it must be a great love indeed which would be willing to take her—­a poor, simple, half-Indian girl—­and brave the world, and, above all, that terrible old earl and his pride, for her sake.

Still she dreamed and hoped, and set herself, meanwhile, all the more vigorously because of that hope, to “improve her mind.”  She picked up French wonderfully fast, having a tolerable foundation to go upon and a very quick ear, and she read and practised daily; beside learning various secrets of housekeeping, and attending her mother with the tenderest care.  But it was very lonely.  Lucia had never known what loneliness meant until those days when she sat by the window in the Champs Elysees and watched the busy perpetual stream of passers up and down—­the movements of a world which was close round about, yet with which she had no one link of acquaintance or affection.  It was very lonely; and because she could not speak out her thoughts, and say, “Is Percy here?  Shall I see him some day passing, and thinking nothing of my being near him?” she said the thing that lay next in her mind, “I wish Maurice were here!  Don’t you, mamma?”

They had been more than a month in their new home.  The routine of life had grown familiar to them; they knew the outsides, at least, of all the neighbouring shops; they had walked together to the Arc de Triomphe on the one side, and to the Rond Point on the other; they had driven to the Bois de Boulogne, and done some little sight-seeing beside.  They had done all, in short, to which Mrs. Costello’s strength was at present equal, and had come to a little pause, waiting for warmer weather, and for the renewal of health, which they hoped sunshine would bring her.

One afternoon Claudine had been obliged to go out, and the little apartment was unusually quiet.  Mrs. Costello, tired with a morning walk, had dropped into a doze; and Lucia sat by the window, her work on her lap, and her eyes idly following the constant succession of carriages down below.  To tell the truth, she constantly outraged Claudine’s sense of propriety, by insisting on having one little crevice uncurtained, where she could look out into the free air; and to-day she was making use of the privilege, for want of anything more interesting indoors.  She had no fear of being disturbed, for they had no visitors; in all Paris, there was not one person they knew, unless—.  Percy had been there a