ulty, she told him, in finding means of
transport, but the matter had been finally settled by his engaging a
sailing-boat belonging to a fisherman. The coffin had been put on board
early in the morning, and the boat started at once. It ought, therefore,
to reach the island early to-morrow.

"All here is ready," Mr. Strafford said. "I suppose three o'clock in the
afternoon will do to fix for the funeral; the boat is sure to be here
long before that."

"Oh! yes, long before. Do the people know?"

"Yes, I suppose most of them do. There are not very many who remember
you, but Mary Wanita will be here in the morning to see you. Shall you
dislike it?"

"On the contrary, I shall be very glad. Mary was a true friend."

They talked a little longer, sitting round the fire, when the great logs
began to break through in the middle and fall down on the hearth outside
the andirons, sending up clouds of sparks as they were put back into the
fire. The night was very still; and in the pauses of their talk they
could hear the mournful wash of the river as its steady current pressed
against the landing-place below. To the two elder people, who said
nothing to each other of their fancy, another presence, shadowy and
silent, seemed to take its place among them at the fireside--a fair,
serene presence, matronly and gracious, which had passed away from human
eyes years ago. And they paused and thought of her as she had been that
winter night when she took the fugitive mother and child into her kindly
home, and gave them all her womanly pity and help. What lonely years had
passed here since then!

By some instinctive sympathy their eyes met, and each knew what the
other's thoughts had been. Mr. Strafford rose.

"To-morrow," he said, "we shall have time for a long chat; to-night you
must be tired. I hope Mrs. Hall has done what she could to make you
comfortable."

There could be no doubt about that. For two or three days nothing had
occupied the good woman's thoughts but this strange and wonderful
arrival of strangers--of ladies, too--at the house where so few
strangers ever came; and she had exerted all her backwoods' ingenuity to
repair what deficiency of comfort there might be.

They were in no humour either to be critical; and Lucia was soon asleep,
while her mother lay listening to the sound of the river, and thinking
of the many things which this very room brought so freshly to her mind.

CHAPTER XXIII.

It was late