I.

Lucia tried to hide the traces of her tears, but the attempt was not
particularly successful. Mrs. Costello saw at once that something was
wrong; she asked whether Maurice had been there, and was told briefly
yes, but she delayed any other questions for two reasons. One was, that
merely saying that "Yes" had brought a quiver over Lucia's face, and the
other, that she herself was tired and had got into a habit of dreading
any kind of excitement. She felt a presentiment that there was nothing
pleasant to hear, and at the same time was quite sure that whatever
there was, her daughter would be unable to keep long from her.

She allowed Lucia to carry away her bonnet and shawl, and arrange her
comfortably on the sofa for a rest. Then she began to describe her
drive, and the shops at which Lady Dighton had been making various
purchases. Lucia listened, and tried to be interested, and to lose the
sense of shame and mortification mixed with real compunction, which was
making her wretched. But her heart ached, and besides, she had cried,
sitting all alone on her bedroom floor, till she was exhausted and half
blind. All the while her mother talked, she kept thinking of
Maurice--she neither called him "Poor Maurice," in her thoughts, nor
"Dear Maurice"--but only "Maurice, Maurice," over and over again--her
friend who was gone from her, whom she had justly lost.

But when she was growing more and more absorbed in her own regrets, and
her mother's voice was beginning to sound to her like one in a dream,
there came a sudden sharp ring at the door-bell. Could it be Maurice?
She grew red as fire while she listened--but the door opened and shut,
and there were no steps but Claudine's in the hall.

The maid came in. "A letter for madame, and a packet for
mademoiselle,"--both directed by Maurice.

Lucia took hers to the window. She scarcely dared to open it, but she
feared to appear to hesitate. Slowly she broke the seals, and found a
tiny morocco case and a note. She hardly looked at the case, the note
would be Maurice's farewell, and she did not know whether it would bring
reproach or forgiveness with it. It was not long--even with her dazzled
eyes, she was not more than a minute reading it.

"My dear old playfellow and pupil"--it began--"I cannot leave Paris
without saying 'Good-bye,' and asking you to forgive me, not for what I
said this morning, but for the way in which I said it. If you cannot
love me (and I understa