n the
hasty, utterly unreasonable fancy which girls often call love."

Lucia blushed crimson, but would not give up her point. "I am sure if I
married a man I did not love, I should hate him in three months," she
said.

"I do not think you and Bella are much alike," Mrs. Costello answered;
"and as for her, perhaps it may comfort you to know that I have
speculated a little on this subject, and I have some suspicion that
there may be more sentiment in the affair then she allows."

Lucia started up. "Really, mamma, I am so glad," she cried. "Only, why
should she be so stupid?"

"I don't think even you, Lucia, would be pleased to see Bella and Doctor
Morton enacting the same _role_ as Magdalen and Harry Scott."

"I am sure I should not. It would be too ridiculous. But just look at
Mr. and Mrs. Bellairs, _they_ seem perfectly happy; and Mr. and Mrs.
Leigh must have been so, in spite of everything. Maurice told me he
believed his mother had never regretted her marriage; and that was
certainly a love match."

"Mine was a 'love match,' Lucia, and brought me misery unimaginable.
Hush, say no more at present."

CHAPTER VIII.

Bella's wedding-day rose as fair and bright as a day could be. The
waning summer seemed to have returned to the freshness of early June,
and to have determined that the bride, whatever else might be wanting,
should have all the blessing sunshine could give her. Lucia, however,
after that first eager look out at the weather which we naturally give
on the morning of a fete-day, began to be conscious of a mood far too
depressed and uneasy to be in harmony with either the weather or the
occasion. Partly perhaps it was that her eyes had turned from habit to
Maurice's window, which when he was at home was always open early, but
whose closed up, solitary look now, reminded her of his absence; partly
that the words her mother had spoken the previous evening lingered in
her mind, and not only brought back more forcibly than ever all her
puzzled and anxious thought about the past and future, but seemed to
throw a dark but impalpable cloud over the happiness of the present.

But there was too much business to be done for her to spend time in
dreaming, and by the time she was ready for breakfast, the inclination
to dream had almost past away. After breakfast, and after the various
daily affairs which in the small household fell to her share to attend
to, there were flowers to be gathered, and a short