near to him, faded away almost out of his recollection to make way for
the really personal interest of this calamity. Mrs. Costello wrote,

"I have done wrong; and I should feel more difficulty, perhaps, in
asking you to forgive me, if I did not, with you, have to regret the
bitter disappointment of my hopes and wishes. You and Lucia must not
meet again, unless, or until, you can do so without any thought of each
other except as old playfellows and friends. This sounds cruel, I know,
and unreasonable,--all the more so after the confidence there has been
between us lately; but you must believe me when I say that I have tried,
more than I ought, to keep for myself the consolation of thinking that
my darling would some day be safe in your care, and that this
consolation has been torn from me. But what can I say to you? My dear
boy, only less dear to me than Lucia, I know you will, you _must_, blame
me, and yet it is for your sake and for that of my own honour that I
separate you from us. You have a right that I should say more, hard as
it is. My daughter, whom you have known almost all her innocent life,
would, if you married her, bring, through those most nearly and
inseparably connected with her, a stain and a blot upon your name; no
honourable man can ever make her his wife, and the best prayer that can
be made for her is, that she may remain as unconscious of all earthly
love as she is now of yours. We are going away, not just yet, but very
soon, to try to lose ourselves in the world; very possibly an
explanation of much that I have not courage to tell you may soon become
so public that even in England you may hear of it, and thank me for what
I have written."

The letter broke off abruptly, but there was a postscript reminding him
that no one, not even his father, knew more, or, indeed, as much as he
did, of her secret, and bidding him not betray her; this postscript,