risings and conspiracies in the neighbourhood, quite unconscious of the agitated state of his listeners. Yet Francesca could not but marvel that the unusual absence and trouble of Lucy could escape her father's eye. Shy she always was, but attentive. She listened anxiously to the little that he said, and was careful that any delicacy which had been prepared should be held out as an inducement for him to eat—not so much for the thing itself as a slight mark of her own care. But to-night she was quite absorbed. A rich colour mantled like wine into her cheek—a sweet, uncertain smile played about her mouth; and the downcast eyes seemed to repose on the happy and beating heart within.
When supper was over, all sought at once their own chambers. Lucy's farewell for the night to Francesca was even affectionate; it was more so than usual, for her lips overflowed with the tender and excited feelings, whose delicious consciousness was now upon the charmed present. One question from her companion would have drawn forth her precious secret; for Lucy was silent from timidity, not from reserve. But that question Francesca could not ask—she felt unequal to it. She needed the solitude of her own room to compose her scattered thoughts—she dared not trust
