some of the trouble she had anticipated
for her child was a mere chimera.

She came out to them, therefore, pale and weary from her vigil, but
cheerful and composed.

"How is your father, Maurice?" she asked; "can you stay with us to
breakfast?"

"Thank you, no; my father is so much alone. He seemed better last night.
Your visit did him good."

"I am glad of that. Lucia will go over to-day and stay with him for a
while."

"Will she? He says she never comes to see him now."

"Indeed, I will," said Lucia, with a little remorse in her tone. "I will
go and read the newspaper straight through to him, from one end to the
other."

"Poor Lucia! What a sacrifice to friendship," answered Maurice laughing.
"But to reward you, Blackwood arrived last night, and you will find the
new chapter of your favourite story."

Soon after ten o'clock Lucia put on her hat, and, strong in her good
resolutions, went along the lane to Mr. Leigh's. She lifted the latch
rather timidly, and peeped in. From the tiny entrance she could see into
the large square sitting-room, so tidy and so bare, from which the last
trace of feminine occupation had passed away three years ago, when Alice
Leigh, her old playfellow, died. There, in his high-backed chair, sat
the solitary old man, prematurely old, worn out by labour and sorrow
before his time. He turned his head at the sound of her entrance, and
held out his hand, with a smile of welcome.

"My child, what a stranger you have grown!"

She came forward with a tender thrill of pity and affection.

"And you have been ill?" she said; "why did not you tell Maurice you
wanted me?"

"Never mind, now. There is your own chair; sit down and tell me all your
news."

She brought her chair to his side, and began to talk to him. How many
happy hours she had spent in this room! Long ago, when she could first
remember, when her mother and Mrs. Leigh had been dear friends; later,
when there were yet others left of the ever-diminishing circle; later
still, when Alice and Maurice were her daily companions; and even since,
when she herself seemed to be, in the quiet household, the only
representative of the daughters and sisters passed away. She felt that
she had been selfish lately, and began to reproach herself the more
strongly as she saw how affectionately she was still welcomed.

She told all the little scraps of news she could think of; she arranged
on the mantelpiece some flowers she had brought in; f