Mrs. Portico’s heart gave a jump as this serene, handsome, familiar girl, sitting there with a hand in hers, and pouring forth this extraordinary tale, spoke of everything being over. There was a glossy coldness in it, an unnatural lightness, which suggested--poor Mrs. Portico scarcely knew what. If Georgina was to become a mother, it was to be supposed she was to remain a mother. She said there was a beautiful place in Italy--Genoa--of which Raymond had often spoken--and where he had been more than once,--he admired it so much; could n’t they go there and be quiet for a little while? She was asking a great favor,--that she knew very well; but if Mrs. Portico would n’t take her, she would find some one who would. They had talked of such a journey so often; and, certainly, if Mrs. Portico had been willing before, she ought to be much more willing now. The girl declared that she must do something,--go somewhere,--keep, in one way or another, her situation unperceived. There was no use talking to her about telling,--she would rather die than tell. No doubt it seemed strange, but she knew what she was about. No one had guessed anything yet,--she had succeeded perfectly in doing what she wished,--and her father and mother believed--as Mrs. Portico had believed,--had n’t she?--that, any time the last year, Raymond Beuyon was less to her than he had been before. Well, so he was; yes, he was. He had gone away--he was off, Heaven knew where--in the Pacific; she was alone, and now she would remain alone. The family believed it was all over,--with his going back to his ship, and other things, and they were right: for it _was_ over, or it would be soon.