spite
of her indignation, could not restrain a laugh as she looked, half shy,
half saucy, into her mother's face.

Mrs. Costello laughed too; but there was as deep a flush on her cheek as
on her daughter's, and her heart throbbed painfully.

"Well," she said, "but this _rara avis_ was not named?"

"Yes she was. Oh! I can't tell you all; but you know Maurice was there,
and Mr. Bellairs told Mr. Percy that he ought to be the best qualified
to describe her, because he saw her every day. Then Mr. Percy asked what
was her name, and Mr. Bellairs told him. But when Mr. Percy asked
Maurice something, he only said, 'Do you believe people _can_ be
described, Mr. Percy? I don't; and if I did, I should not make a
catalogue of a lady's qualities for the benefit of others.'"

"Well done, Lucia, most correctly reported. Who has been telling tales?"

An unsuspected listener stepped out with these words from the dark
parlour on to the verandah; but Lucia, springing up at the sound of his
voice, flew past him and disappeared.

He came forward, "Don't be angry, Mrs. Costello. I met Margery at the
gate, and she sent me in. I assure you I did not hear more than the last
sentence; yet, you see I met with a listener's fate."

"I _don't_ see it at all. On the contrary, you did hear good of
yourself."

"I am glad you think so. Lucia is to be with Mrs. Bellairs to-morrow?"

"Yes. She says at present that she will not, but we shall see."

"I left early, and met Mrs. Bellairs and Miss Latour on the way. They
told me they had been here."

Maurice leaned against a pillar of the verandah and was silent, his eyes
turned to the door through which Lucia had vanished.

The new guest was much too intimate for Mrs. Costello to dream of
"making conversation." She sat quite still looking out.

By this time sunset had entirely faded from the sky, and a few stars
were beginning to twinkle faintly; but the rising moon, herself
invisible, threw a lovely silver brightness over the river and made a
flitting sail glimmer out snowy white as it went silently with a zigzag
course up the stream. Between the river and the cottage every object
began to be visible with that cold distinctness of outline which belongs
to clear moonlight,--every rail of the garden fence, every plant that
grew beyond the shadow of the building. A tall acacia-tree which stood
on one side waved its graceful leaves in the faint breeze, and caught
the light on its long clusters of