A Canadian Heroine, Volume 2

do alone all that she could do for her mother's recovery; but it was so long before she succeeded that she grew almost wild with terror. At last, however, the deathly

ve to get used to these attacks. Do not be

ver used to

nd strength cann

ld; you are not much

there are some years th

ssure upon you; you are

al consequence of what I did. Be patient, both for me an

ith her mother's pale face and faintly spoken words to oppose her. She busied herself softly in such little

her sympathy with Lucia, she had secretly rejoiced at his dismissal; she had felt no scruples in hearing from Maurice, at the very moment when his prospects had suddenly changed and brightened, the assurance of his attachment, and she had received his note that very day with a joy which almost resembled that which a girl feels who hears from his own lips that her absent lover is faithful to her. To this mother, cut off from every tie but that of motherhood, her child was the one only absorbing interest; she had loved Maurice, but she knew now that she had loved him chie

vately and with extenuation, but in coarse hard words, and to the whole of the little world that knew her;

stian was the criminal, but in her own heart she had already accepted the evidence against him, and it seemed to her that all which remained to be done with regard to Maurice was to write and tell him

tion came to an end, she

ve been ready to complain of the very u

to pay him her morning visit. He was easily satisfied, however, with the slight reasons

e had been told to Mr. Leigh already by an early visitor, and he, full of horror and sympathy, was able to

at her heart, was a task before which Lucia's courage almost gave way. Yet it was done. No impatience betrayed her, no sign of emotion beyond that of natural feeling for others was

as if with hard physical exertion, she

nough that there was no mistake of identity. Only one hope remained, and that so feeble that neither dared to acknowl

y to her faithful friend an

ter-for her I have thought and planned, and in her I have had my daily consolation. But now I begin to remember that I am not a mother only, but also a wif

n would certainly excite notice. I might, indeed, send her to England; my cousin, I believe, would receive her for a while; but there, you know, I cannot follow her, and a long parting is more than I have courage

r, for once favoured her anxiety, and only two days afterwards came a

I should think, need, for the present at least, know of any connection whatever between your family affairs and my visit. My errand is to try what can be done for the unhappy prisoner,

object of fear and abhorrence. She hated him as the cause of her mother's sufferings, of their false and insecure position, and of the self-loathing which possessed her when she thought of their relationship. The idea of any wifely duty owing t

ld fear and disgust; there was still horror, especially of the new guilt which separated him more than ever from her purer world, but there was a deep and yearning pity also. She felt sure, before Mr. Strafford arrived, that he would tell her she was right; that Christian-even by the very act which had put him out of the ranks of ordinary men, out

ew there would be no difficulty in doing, and to bring back to Mrs. Costello such an account as would enable her to judge how far her interference might or

irm uncle, living a long distance from Cacouna, was almost the only person connected with him by blood; it was to her own family alone, therefore, that Bella had to look for the deepest sympathy. But the whole neighbourhood had known her from a child; and in her great grief every one seemed ready to claim a share. All the kin

s admitted into the darkened room, where her once gay companion sat and watched with heavy eyes the passing of those first days of widowhood. No one would have recognized Bella Latour now. She sat, wan and half-lifeless, caring for nothing except now and then to draw round her more closely a great shawl in which she was wrapped, as if th

uddenly away, and throwing herself upon a couch, sobbed with the passionate vehemence of a child. From that moment she was eager to keep Lucia with her. She did not care to speak, but the sight of one so associated with her lost happiness seemed a consolation to her; and thus, with her own heavy weight

Cottage. Her mind, roused into feverish activity, recurred to the night when she had met Percy on that very road; she saw again, in imagination, the figure of the Indian-of her father, as she now believed-rising up from the green bank. She saw Percy, and heard his words, and then r