seeing no more than the natural horror on those two white faces of
mother and daughter, which dreaded to meet and read the thought, in each
other's eyes.

It was for this, then, that they had delayed their journey. Neither
doubted for a moment the guilt of the wretched creature who was the
haunting terror and misery of their lives; and it was not strange that,
overwhelmed with the stronger and more personal interest, they should
forget to wonder or lament over the dead, cut down in the very beginning
of life, or to think of the desolate and widowed bride meeting her first
grief in the unnatural guise of murder.

Mrs. Costello came back to her chair by the fireside. She could no
longer take her fears and anxieties into the solitude of her own room,
and hide them there. There was both pain and comfort in knowing that
Lucia now shared with her every additional weight--even this last, which
she scarcely yet comprehended. But it was some time before either spoke.
Each was trying to gauge the new depth which seemed to have opened under
their feet--the wife and daughter of a murderer! The old ignominy, the
old degradation, had been all but intolerable. How then should they bear
this? And their secret, must it not be known now? become the common
gossip of the country, of the people who had called them friends? Each
felt instinctively that their thoughts were running on in the same
channels, each shrank from words. Yet, it was needful to consult, to ask
each other the question, "What shall we do?"

At last Mrs. Costello roused herself.

"We must put off our journey," she said, with a smothered sigh, which,
indeed, had nearly been a groan.