Maurice leaned against a pillar of the verandah and was silent, his eyes
turned to the door through which Lucia had vanished.

The new guest was much too intimate for Mrs. Costello to dream of
"making conversation." She sat quite still looking out.

By this time sunset had entirely faded from the sky, and a few stars
were beginning to twinkle faintly; but the rising moon, herself
invisible, threw a lovely silver brightness over the river and made a
flitting sail glimmer out snowy white as it went silently with a zigzag
course up the stream. Between the river and the cottage every object
began to be visible with that cold distinctness of outline which belongs
to clear moonlight,--every rail of the garden fence, every plant that
grew beyond the shadow of the building. A tall acacia-tree which stood
on one side waved its graceful leaves in the faint breeze, and caught
the light on its long clusters of creamy blossom.

Everything was so peaceful that there seemed, even to herself, a strange
discord between the scene within and the heavy pain that sunk deep into
her heart this evening--a trembling sense of dread--a passionate yet
impotent desire to escape. She pressed her hand upon her heart. The
motion roused her from her reverie which indeed had lasted but a
minute--one of those long minutes when we in one glance seem to retrace
years of the past, and to make a fruitless effort to pierce the veil of
the future. She rose, and, bidding her companion "Come in," stepped into
the little parlour.

A shaded lamp had been brought in and placed on the table, but the flame
was turned down so as to throw only a glimmering light just around it.