I hastened to her. She threw back her veil, and stooped from her saddle to kiss me.

“I was coming to see you tomorrow,” said she; “but now, tomorrow you will come and see me.”

She named the hour, and I promised compliance.

The morrow’s evening found me with her⁠—she and I shut into her own room. I had not seen her since that occasion when her claims were brought into comparison with those of Ginevra Fanshawe, and had so signally prevailed; she had much to tell me of her travels in the interval. A most animated, rapid speaker was she in such a tête-à-tête, a most lively describer; yet with her artless diction and clear soft voice, she never seemed to speak too fast or to say too much. My own attention I think would not soon have flagged, but by-and-by, she herself seemed to need some change of subject; she hastened to wind up her narrative briefly. Yet why she terminated with so concise an abridgment did not immediately appear; silence followed⁠—a restless silence, not without symptoms of abstraction. Then, turning to me, in a diffident, half-appealing voice⁠—“Lucy⁠—”