estate; now he put it all down to his mother's account. His father
had certainly adored her once, and this feeling had changed into
wild self-consuming hatred. What had happened? He did not know;
but he could not but admit that his mother would have tried the
patience of Job.

He pictured to himself how Lucie would come running with her
flowers, search for him over the whole quay, farther and farther
every time, standing still at last. He could not think of it
without tears, and without a feeling of bitterness.

But a child is a child. It was not a life-long grief. As the place
was new and historically interesting, and as lessons had now begun
and his mother was always with him, this feeling wore off, but the
mutual restraint was still there. The critical spirit which had
first been roused in England never afterwards left Rafael.

The hours of study which they passed together produced good
results. Beginning as her pupil, he had ended by becoming her
teacher. She was anxious to keep up with him, and this was an
advantage to him, on account of her almost too minute accuracy,
but still more from her intelligent questions. Apart from study
they passed many pleasant hours together, but they both knew that
something was missing in their conversation which could never be
there again.

At longer or shorter intervals a shy silence interrupted this
intercourse. Sometimes it was he, sometimes she, who, for some
cause or other, often a most trivial one, elected not to reply,
not to ask a question, not to see. When they were good friends he