More than once she had to stop, to wait till her voice was less unsteady, but she went on to the very end—­even to that strange burial in the waters.  When all was told, there was a silence in the room; Father Paul had wet eyes, unseen in the dusk, and he did not care to speak; Lucia, whose tears were very ready of late; was crying quietly, with her head lying against the end of the sofa, while Mrs. Costello, leaning back on her cushions, waited quietly till the painful throbbing of her heart should subside.

At last Lucia rose and stole out of the room.  She went to her own, and lay down on her bed still crying, though she could hardly tell why.  Her trouble about the letter still haunted and worried her, and her spirit was so broken that she was like a sick child, neither able nor anxious to command herself.

Meanwhile the lamp had been brought into the sitting-room, and the two elder people had recommenced their conversation.  It was of a less agitating kind now, but the subject was not very different, and both were deeply interested, so that time passed on quickly, and the evening was gone before they were aware.  When Father Paul rose to go, he said, “Madam, I thank you for all you have told me.  Your secret is safe with me; but I beg your permission to share the rest of your intelligence with one of my brothers—­the only survivor except myself of that mission.  If you will permit me, I shall visit you again—­I should like much to make friends with mademoiselle, your daughter.  She recalls to me strongly the features of my once greatly loved pupil.”

With this little speech he departed, and left Mrs. Costello to wonder over this last page in her husband’s history.  Only a year ago how little would she have believed it possible that a man respectable, nay, venerable, as this old priest, would have thought kindly of Lucia for her father’s sake!

After a little while she got up and went to look for her daughter.  She found her sitting at a window, looking forlornly out at the lights and movements in the place, and not very ready to meet the lamplight when she came back into the sitting-room.  Still, however, she heard nothing of the letter, nor even when she bade her mother good night and lingered a little at the very last, hoping for one word, even though it might be a reproach, to tell her that it was from Maurice.

She had to go to her room disconsolate.  She heard Mrs. Costello go to hers, and close the door.

‘Now,’ she thought, ’it will be opened.  It cannot be from him, or mamma could not have waited so long.  But I don’t know; she has such self-command!  I used to fancy I could be patient at great need—­and I am not one bit.’

However, as waiting and listening for every sound brought her no nearer to the obtaining of her wishes, she undressed and lay down, and began to try to imagine what the letter could be.  Gradually, from thinking, she fell into dreaming, and dropped into a doze.