“Sometimes,” she answered, “it is part of our penalty to suffer alone.  Hitherto I have done so.  No, Maurice, though you could scarcely be dearer to me if you were my son, I cannot tell even you, at present, what I fear.”

“At present?  But you will, later?”

“Later, perhaps.  Certainly, if ever we meet again.”

“Which we shall do.  You do not mean that you would not let me know where you go?”

“Perhaps I ought to mean it.”

“It would be useless.  Whenever you go I shall find you.  You know—­I am almost sure you know—­that whether right or wrong, it is leaving you that troubles me now, even more than leaving my father.”

Mrs. Costello smiled faintly.

“You do me justice,” she said, “but I will alter your sentence a little for you, and say that you leave as much of your heart in my house as in your father’s.  I believe that; I am almost sorry now to believe it.”

“Why should you be sorry?  Do you think that there is no chance that in time things may be more hopeful for me than they are at present?”

“More hopeful for both our wishes, you might say; but, Maurice, my day-dreams of many years past may have to be given up with my dear little home.”

“Do not say so, if, indeed, your wishes are the same as mine.  I have faith in time and patience.”

“Do not let us say more on the subject—­it is too tempting.  I, too, must try to have faith in time.”

“And you will write to me regularly?”

“As long as I am here.”

“And remember that I am not to be shaken off.  I belong to you; and you are never to trust anybody else to do a thing for you which I could have done.  You will promise me that, won’t you?”

“My dear boy, don’t make me regret your going more than I should do.  In any case, I shall miss you daily.”

They had reached the Cottage, and Lucia came out to meet them.

“How slowly you came!” she cried.  “I thought you never meant to arrive.  Mamma, you look dreadfully tired.  What have you been doing to her, Maurice?”

She was talking fast, to keep, if possible, their attention from herself; for, to confess the truth, she had been indulging in a little cry all alone, and did not care that her red eyelids should betray her; but she might have spared the trouble.  No word or look of hers was likely to pass unnoticed in that last precious few minutes, though they all sat down together, and tried to talk of indifferent matters as if there had been the least possibility, just then, of any other thought than that of parting.

After a short time, Maurice rose.

“I must give my father the last hour,” he said, “and the boat is due at six.”

“But it does not ever leave before seven,” Lucia answered, “and it is still a quarter to five.”

“I have to meet it when it comes in.  Mr. Bellairs is coming home by it, and I have various affairs to settle with him.”