himself free, Lucia had in her heart an unacknowledged sense of power
over him; the old ability to torment, which she had so often exercised
on Maurice in mere girlish playfulness. Once or twice she had purposely
exerted this power over her new acquaintance, but not with her old
carelessness; too deeply interested in the question of how far it
extended, she used it with trembling as a dangerous instrument which
might fail, and wound her in its recoil. But as days passed on, and each
one brought him to the Cottage, or found Lucia with Mrs. Bellairs, and
therefore in his society, it began to seem incredible that his coming
was an event of only a few weeks ago; the past seemed to have receded,
and this present, so bright and perfect, to be all her life. Yet, in
truth, she had no notion of anatomizing her thoughts or feelings. They
had come to be largely, almost wholly occupied by a new inmate, but she
was simply content that it should be so, without once considering the
subject.

One person, however, spent many bitter thoughts upon this recent change.
To Maurice Leigh every day had brought a more thorough knowledge of
Lucia's infatuation and of his own loss. He had loved her almost all his
life, and would love her faithfully now, and always; but he began to be
aware now, that he required more of her than the affection which he
could still claim; that he wanted her daily companionship; her sympathy
in all that interested him; her confidence with regard to all that
concerned herself. He wanted all this; but he could do without it: he
could love her and wait, if that were all. But what was hardest, nay,
almost unendurable, was the anticipation of her day of disenchantment,
when she must see the truth as he saw it now, and find herself thrown
aside to learn, in solitude and suffering, how blindly she had suffered
herself to be duped by a fair appearance. For, of course, Maurice was
unjust. Seeing Lucia daily as she grew up, he had no idea how much the