“You are late,” Lady Curtis said, when she came up. “I thought, as it gets dark so soon, I would come and meet you.” This was one of the many little pathetic additions to her ordinary tender ways, which Lady Curtis made, partially unawares, to conciliate her child. “Thank you, mamma. I met Mrs. Arthur, and she told me you were here.” “Yes, I met her, too; how pretty she is! and she made me such curious pretty speeches. Is it humility, is it pride? I cannot understand. I think that young woman must have a history.” “I suppose most people have,” said Lucy. “You know what I mean,” said Lady Curtis. “She took to telling me about her faults, poor thing, _àpropos de bottes_. It was quite uncalled for--but confidence, whoever it may be that gives it, is always touching. I suppose it feels like a compliment. It is always complimentary when people trust in you.” Here she gave her daughter’s arm a little soft pressure. Lucy felt it, but misunderstood it, as was natural. It felt the very softest tenderest of reproaches for something withheld; but Lucy understood one thing and Lady Curtis meant quite another. Therefore now they came to an understanding, though still a mistaken one. “If I ever keep anything from you, mamma,” she cried, “it is only because--because--” “My darling,” said the mother, holding her child’s arm close within her own. “Do you think I don’t understand?” and she gave a little sigh. What was it she did or did not understand? Lucy was wholly puzzled; and then they fell to talking of other things; of the parish, and how many flannel-petticoats and pairs of blankets should be ordered for Christmas; and about the little cookery school, which was Lucy’s present hobby--how nicely Annie Bird, the model girl, made the soup for the sick; and then changing from that--wondered when Arthur’s next letter would come, and told each other that they did not like the tone of the last one. Poor Arthur! would it be possible to have him home for Christmas. Surely Lady Curtis said, he did not intend to stay permanently out of England because of that dreadful wife of his. That would be hard indeed upon his own family, who loved him. And thus they beguiled the way up the darkling avenue, with their faces turned towards the lights of home. Oh, if Arthur would only come home! There at least he would find nothing but tenderness, not a word to cross him, poor fellow! nothing to put him in mind of the wife who had made a waste and wilderness of his life.