d to her heart, and now torn from her pitilessly;
for a moment she was all rebellion at the thought--she, at least, had
not sinned, why should she suffer? Yet in her heart she knew that she
must; she saw the one path clear before her, and felt that the time for
acting was now; the time for grieving must come after. She rose, and
walked up and down the room, gathering her strength and courage as she
could.

At last she stopped in front of her mother's chair. Her face was pale,
but so steady and composed that its girlishness seemed gone--she looked,
what she would be from that time, a woman able to endure, and resolute
to act.

"Mother," she said quietly, "Mr. Percy is coming to-morrow morning. He
is coming to see you, but I would rather speak to him myself. There is
no need that he should know anything whatever--of my father, or of what
you have told me--we shall never see him again."

Except once, there was neither hesitation nor faltering in her voice,
but her meaning could not be misunderstood. For a moment Mrs. Costello
felt her convictions and her judgment shaken; if, after all, this love,
which Lucia was about to lose, should be true and perfect? if Percy
should be capable of knowing all, and yet cherishing and prizing her?
Ought pride, ought her own opinion of him, to stand between her child
and possible happiness and safety?

But she saw in Lucia's face that underneath all her love, the same
feeling, that his would not stand this shock, lay deep in her heart, and
the doubt died away as suddenly as it had risen.

"Do as you will, my child," she said. "But think well first. I, who have
failed where I most desired to succeed, cannot venture now to advise
you."

Lucia bent down and kissed her. "Poor mother!" she said tenderly, "you
have thought too much for me, and I have never known what a burden I was
to you. But we shall do better in future--when we are far away and have
begun life again."

The hopeful words sounded very dreary in the sweet young voice, which
seemed to have changed its tone, and taken the low mournful intonation
of her Indian race; but she moved calmly away, replaced the contents of
the desk with care, and closed and locked it. Then she gave the key to
her mother, and bent over her again to say good-night.

There were no more words spoken between them. A long kiss, and they
separated. But for the first time Mrs. Costello did not visit her
daughter's room--she guessed that a battle had to