.
is the matter, I assure you. Something unexpected has happened, but only to my father and me, and I want to talk to you about it. That is all."
"Something unexpected? What?"
"Come down to the river side; it is quiet there and cool."
They went down together; it was growing very dark, and the turf on the bank was soft and uneven. Lucia put her hand through Maurice's arm with her old childlike familiarity, and said,
"Why do you excite my curiosity if you don't mean to satisfy it, you tiresome Maurice?"
"Are you in such a hurry to hear my news, then? I feel in no such haste to tell it. Look, do you see those lights on the river?"
"Yes. How quickly they move! What are they?"
"What we very seldom see here. They are the lights Indians use in spearing fish."
"Indians!"
Lucia's voice was faint, and she clung to Maurice's arm. Surprised to feel her trembling, he said, "I intended a night or two ago to tell you to look out for them. Surely, you are not afraid of an Indian?"
"I am a little," she answered, trying to overcome her terror. "But where do these come from?"
"You know the saw-mill at the other end of the town, beyond Mr. Bayne's? There are three or four Indians at work there, and they go out sometimes at night to fish."
The two lights, which had been but just visible when they first came out, flitting here and there through the darkness, had now approached much nearer, so that the canoes could be plainly distinguished. They were quite small, and each contained two men, one sitting down in the stern, a dark undefined shadow, scarcely seen except for the occasional flash of his paddle in the light; the other standing at the prow in the full glare of the fire which burned there, and lit up his wild half-naked figure and the long fish-spear in his hand. As the canoe moved from place to place, they could see the spear dart swiftly into the water, and the sparkle of wet scales as the fish was brought up and thrown into the boat.
Lucia's terror had at first overpowered her curiosity, and as it subsided, she was, for a minute or two, too much interested in the novel sight to renew her questions. As for Maurice, he was, as he had said, in no haste to speak.
It was pleasant to have her for a little while all to himself, pleasant to feel her hand resting more closely on his arm as if he could protect her, even from her own foolish fear, and all was the sweeter, because it might be for the last time. At last, however, she said again,
"But tell me what you were going to. What has happened?"
"One thing that has happened," he replied, rousing himself, "is that I have heard more family history than I knew before. Do you care to hear that?"
"Yes; I should like to if you don't mind."
"Well, you know that my father and mother came out here from England many years ago, directly after their marriage. This marriage, it appears, was disapproved of by my mother's family—was a runaway match, indeed, and never forgiven even to the time of her death."
"Oh, Maurice! and were her father and mother alive?"
"Her father was, and still is. She was an only daughter, with but one brother; and my grandfather, who is a Norfolk gentleman of large property, expected her, reasonably enough, to marry a man who was her equal in fortune. However, she chose to marry my father, who was then a soldier, a poor lieutenant, with little money, and equally little prospect of rising. I don't know whether women are very wise or very foolish, Lucia, but they seem to see things with different eyes to men. My mother chose to marry, then, though my father was poor, and certain to remain so; though she was a gay spoiled girl of just twenty-one, and he a grave man not much under forty. He sold out, and they came here. I don't believe she ever was unhappy, or repented her marriage, and my father while she lived had all he cared for; since her death, indeed, there has been sorrow after sorrow."
Maurice stopped a moment.
"But you know all that," he said hastily, and went on. "My mother wrote several times to her father and to her brother, first after her arrival in Canada, then after the birth of her eldest child, and last of all just before she died; but no answer ever came. After her death my father, as she wished, wrote again, but until this morning he had heard nothing from my grandfather for all these six-and-twenty years."
"You have heard, then, at last?"
"At last. This morning a letter came. It is a pitiful one to read. My grandfather is, as you may suppose, a very old man; he is ill and alone, and begins to repent, I think, of his harshness to my mother."
"But why is he alone? You said he had a son."
"Yes, but he is dead. He died six months ago, and left but one child, a daughter, who is married and has no children."
"No children? and your grandfather is very rich?"
"I believe so."
"But you are his heir, then? Is that it?"
"He says so, or rather, he says my mother's eldest son is his heir. He knows nothing of me individually."
"And you are the only one left? Ah, Maurice, if Alice even had been alive!"
Maurice sighed.
"If poor Herbert had been alive, how gladly I would have left the heirship to him!"
"But why? I think that is foolish. It is a good thing to be rich. It will be a good thing for you, because you are good."
Maurice laughed.
"Your flattery, Lucia, will not reconcile me to my fate. You have not yet heard all."
"What else? Is Mr. Leigh pleased?"
"Not more than I am. My grandfather wants to see his heir."
"Do you mean that he wants you to go to England?"
"Yes. And my father consents."
"But not yet?"
"At once. To sail from New York on Saturday."
"It is Wednesday now."
"I start to-morrow night."
"When will you come back?"
"When, indeed? Lucia, do not you see that this is a heavy price to pay?"
"Ah! don't go. This grandfather has been cruel all these years; let him wait now. Beside, what will Mr. Leigh do without you?"
"He insists upon my going. He believes it would have been my mother's wish, and therefore he will rather stay here alone than refuse."
"Then you must go. But could not you persuade him to come and stay with us? Mamma would like it, I know."
"Impossible, dear child. Who knows how long I may be away, or what changes may take place before I come back."
"Well, we shall see him every day, in any case. But what shall I do without you? and mamma?"
"You remind me of the last thing I have to say. It seems to me, I cannot tell you why, as if this change in my own life was to be followed by other changes. I think Mrs. Costello has something of the same feeling, and I want to say this to you, that if you should find it true, you may remember in any disturbance of this quiet life of yours that I had some vague anticipation of it, and not hesitate to let me be any help, any use, to you that I can be. Do you understand? I shall be away, but I shall not be changed in anything. You told me the other day I always came to your help in your dilemmas. I want you to think of me always so. Can you manage to keep such, a living recollection of the absent?"
Lucia's tears were falling fast by this time in the darkness, yet she thought there was something cold and restrained in Maurice's words and tone, and she could not guess how much the restraint cost him.
"As if I should forget you!" she said rather resentfully. "I could just as soon forget my brother, if I had one."
The word did not suit Maurice.