"Mamma, do come for a walk," she said, putting her arm round her mother.
"Come, I am tired of the house."

"You are tired, darling, I believe. Remember how late you were last
night. But it is tea-time now."

"Oh, what a nuisance! I can go out afterwards, though."

"Yes, I dare say Maurice will walk with you."

"Mamma, I think I shall go to bed."

"In the meantime sit down here and talk to me."

She dropped down on the floor, and laid her head on her mother's lap.

"Talk to me, mamma. Talk about England."

An old, old theme. Mother and daughter had talked about England, the
far-away Mother Land, many many hours full of pleasure to both; to one
the subject had all the enchantment of a fairy tale, to the other of the
tenderest and sweetest recollections. Lucia had heard, over and over
again, each detail of the landscape, each incident in the history, of
her mother's birthplace; she knew the gentle invalid mistress and the
kind stern master, her grandfather and grandmother; she had loved to
gather into her garden the flowers which had grown about the grey walls
of the old house by the Dee; the one wish she had cherished from a child
was to see with living eyes all that was so familiar to her fancy. But
to-day, though she said, "Talk about England," it was not of all this