But before she was sound asleep, the door opened, and Mrs. Costello shading her candle with her hand, came into the room.  Lucia had been so excited that the smallest movement was sufficient to awake her.  She started up and said, “What is it mamma?” in a frightened voice.

“It is late,” Mrs. Costello said.  “Quite time you were asleep, but I am glad you are not.  Lie down.  I shall sit here for a few minutes and tell you what I want to say.”

Lucia obeyed.  She saw that her mother had a paper in her hand—­no doubt the letter.  Now she should hear.

“I had a letter to-night,” her mother went on.  “I dare say you wondered I did not open it at once.  The truth was, I saw that it was in Mr. Leigh’s writing, and I had reason to feel a little anxious as to what he might say.”

“Yes, mamma.”

Lucia could say no more; but she waited eagerly for the news that must be coming—­news of Maurice.

“I shall give you the letter to read.  Bring it back to me in the morning; but before you do so, think well what you will do.  I would never ask you to be untrue to yourself in such a matter; but I entreat you to see that you do know your own mind, and to use your power of saying yes or no, if you should ever have it, not like a foolish girl, but like a woman, who must abide all her life by the consequences of her decision.”

Mrs. Costello kissed her daughter’s forehead, lighted the candle which stood on a small table, and leaving the letter beside it, went softly away.

The moment the door closed, Lucia eagerly stretched out her arm and took the letter.  Her hands trembled; the light seemed dim; and Mr. Leigh’s cramped old-fashioned handwriting was more illegible than ever; but she read eagerly, devouring the words.

“My dear Mrs. Costello,—­You may think, perhaps, that I ought not to interfere in a matter in which I have not been consulted; but you know that to us, who have in all the world nothing to care for but one only child, that child’s affairs are apt to be much the same as our own.

“Maurice told me, just before we left Canada, what I might have been certain of long before if I had not been a stupid old man—­that it was the hope of his life to marry your Lucia.  He went to Paris, certainly, with the intention of asking her to marry him; and he came back quite unexpectedly, and looking ten years older—­so changed, not only in looks, but in all his ways of speaking and acting, that it was clear to me some great misfortune had happened.  Still he said very little to me, and it appears incredible that Lucia can have refused him.  Perhaps that seems an arrogant speech for his father to make—­but you will understand that I mean if she knew how constantly faithful he has been to her ever since they were both children;—­and if she has done so in some momentary displeasure with him (for you know they used to have little quarrels sometimes), or if they have parted in anger, I beg of you, dear Mrs. Costello, for the sake of his mother, to try to put things right between them.