though the Princess had stepped in between them; there was a drawing of
the cottage executed under Maurice's teaching; here was a little
work-basket, and there a half-written note. Enough moonlight stole in
through the window to show distinctly the lovely dark face resting on
the pillow, and surrounded by long hair, glossy, and black as jet. Mrs.
Costello stood silently by the bedside.

A kind of shudder passed over her. "She is lovely," she said to herself;
"but that terrible beauty! If she had had my pale skin and hair, I
should have feared less; but she has nothing of that beauty from me. Yet
perhaps it is the best; the whole mental nature may be mine, as the
whole physical is----" Her hand pressed strongly upon her heart. "I have
been at peace so long," she went on, "yet I always knew trouble must
come again, and through _her_; but if it were only for me, it would be
nothing. Now _she_ must suffer. I had thought she might escape. But it
is the old story, the sins of the fathers----Can no miseries of mine be
enough to free her?"

She turned away into her own room, and shut the door softly, so as not
to wake her child; yet firmly, as if she would shut out even that child
from all share in her solitary burden.




CHAPTER II.


Maurice's prediction of a fine day proved true. At twelve o'clock the
weather was as brilliant as possible; the sky blue and clear, the river