Lucia looked eagerly at her mother.

“Yes, mamma,” she said; “let me go into Cacouna in the morning, and ask her to come and see you.  Do tell her first, and let her tell Bella.”

Mrs. Costello understood how her child caught at the idea of being relieved from the sense of deceit which had lately weighed upon her whenever she was in the company of her two friends.  The idea, too, of telling her secret to the kindly ear of a woman rather than to men, was an improvement on her own purpose.  She assented, therefore, thankfully.

“Only,” she said, “there is no need for you to go.  I will write a note to Mrs. Bellairs, and I think she will come to us.”

But, as it happened, the note, although written, was not sent.  On the following morning, just as breakfast was over at the Cottage, Mrs. Bellairs’ pony and sleigh came to the door, and, after a hasty inquiry for Mrs. Costello, Mrs. Bellairs herself came in.

“William told me,” she said, “that he had seen you yesterday, and that you were not well; so I thought the best thing I could do was to come myself, and see how you were to-day.”

There were a few minutes of talk, like, and yet unlike, what might have taken place between the same party at any other time—­unlike, for each was talking of one thing, and thinking of another; even Mrs. Bellairs, who had, of course, heard from her husband the history of her friend’s extraordinary and unaccountable agitation at the jail, and was full of wonder and curiosity in consequence.

After a little while Mr. Strafford left the room.  Lucia was watching for an opportunity to follow him, when her mother signed to her to remain, and at once began to speak of what had happened yesterday.

“That unhappy man’s confession,” she said, “must have been a relief to you all, I should think; but you cannot guess what it was to us.”

“It was a relief,” Mrs. Bellairs answered, “for it will save so much horrible publicity, and the going over again of all that dreadful story; but it is shocking to think of that poor Indian, shut up in prison so long when he was innocent.  But William will not rest till he is at liberty.”

“I fear he will never be that.  He is dying.”

“Oh!  I hope not.  William told me he was very ill; but when we get him once free, he must be taken good care of, and surely he will recover.”

“I think not.  I do not think it possible he can live many days; and no one has the same interest in the question that I have.”

She stopped a moment, and then, drawing Lucia towards her, laid her hand gently on her shoulder.

“Dear friend,” she said, “you have spoken to me often about this child’s beauty; look at her well, and see if it will not tell you what her father was.”

Mrs. Bellairs obeyed.  Lucia, under the impulse of excitement, had suddenly risen, and now stood pressing one hand upon the mantelpiece to steady herself.  Her eyes were full of a wistful inexplicable meaning; her whole figure with its dark and graceful beauty seemed to express a mystery, but it was one to which no key appeared.