betrayed her, no sign of emotion beyond that of natural feeling for
others was allowed to escape her; only her hands, which lay quietly
clasped together in her lap, gradually tightened and contracted till the
pressure of her slight fingers was like that of iron.

At last she was released; and exhausted as if with hard physical
exertion, she came back to the Cottage with her news.

There was no need to tell it. The hopeless look which, when she dared be
natural, settled in her eyes, told plainly enough that there was no
mistake of identity. Only one hope remained, and that so feeble that
neither dared to acknowledge it in her heart, though she might speak of
it as existing--the hope that after all the prisoner might be innocent.

Mrs. Costello wrote that day to her faithful friend and counsellor, Mr.
Strafford.

"I am in a terrible strait," she said, "and it is to you only in this
world that I can look for aid. My whole life, as you know, has been
given to my daughter--for her I have thought and planned, and in her I
have had my daily consolation. But now I begin to remember that I am not
a mother only, but also a wife. Have I a right to forget it? Can
anything excuse a wife who does so? Tell me what I ought to do; for if
ever I am to think of my husband it must be now.

"Yet it seems to me that, for Lucia's sake, I must still, if possible,
keep my secret. I long to send her away from me, at this moment, but she
has no friends at a distance from Cacouna, and besides, our separation
would certainly excite notice. I might, indeed, send her to England; my
cousin, I believe, would receive her for a while; but there, you know, I