“Have you worse accounts of his health?”

“No; not worse.  But he will be quite alone.”

“More alone than when you first left him?  I do not quite understand.”

“Yes; some very near neighbours—­old friends of his and my mother’s—­are going to leave Cacouna.  I had no reason to be uneasy about him while they were there.  Do you think my grandfather could be persuaded to spare me for six weeks?”

“Not willingly, I think.  Could not my uncle come home without your going?”

Maurice felt as if he were caught in his own trap, but he recollected himself in a moment.

“There would be many things to do,” he said.  “Affairs to settle, the farm to sell or let, and the household, small as it is, to break up.”

Lady Dighton laughed outright.

“And you imagine that you could do all that, and carry your father off besides, in the space of a fortnight, which is the very utmost you could possibly have out of your six weeks!  Really, Maurice, I gave you credit for more reasonableness.”

“I have no doubt I could do it,” he said, a little vexed, “and of course I should try to get back as quickly as possible.”

“Well, let me see if I cannot suggest something a little more practicable.  Is there no person who would undertake the management of the mere business part of the arrangements?”

“Yes,” Maurice answered a little reluctantly.  “I dare say there is.”

“As for the breaking up of the household, I should think my uncle would like to give the directions himself, and I do not see what more you could do; and for anything regarding his comfort, could not you trust to those old friends you spoke of?”

Maurice shook his head impatiently.

“They are going away—­for anything I know, they may be gone now.  No, Louisa, your schemes are very good, but they will not do.  I must go myself; that is, if I can.”

“And the fact of the matter is that you want me to help you to persuade grandpapa that he can spare you.”

“Will you help me?  I know it will be hard.  I would not ask him if I were not half wild with anxiety.”

Lady Dighton looked at her cousin’s face, which was indeed full of excitement.

“What a good son you are, Maurice,” she said slowly.

Maurice felt the blood rush to his very temples.

“I am a dreadful humbug,” he said, feeling that the confession must come.  “Don’t be shocked, Louisa; it is not altogether about my father, but I tell you the truth when I say that I am half wild.”

She smiled in a sort of satisfied, self-gratulatory way, and said, “Well,” which was just what was needed, and brought out all that Maurice could tell about the Costellos.  He said to himself afterwards that he had from the first been half disposed to confess the whole story, and only wanted to know how she was likely to take it; but the truth was that, being as utterly unskilful as man could be in anything like deception, he had placed himself in a dilemma from which she only meant to let him extricate himself by telling her what was really in his mind.