"Oh, mamma, you must. What is the name of the place? Here it is—Bourg-Cailloux. When do you think we can go?"
"Not before next week, certainly. Do not make up your mind to that place, for perhaps it may not suit us yet to go there."
Lucia knelt down, and put her arms softly round her mother's waist.
"Dear mother," she said slowly, "I wish you would go back to England."
Mrs. Costello started. "To England?" she said, "you know quite well that it is impossible."
"You would be glad to go, mamma."
"Child, you do not know how glad I should be. To die and be buried among my own people!"
"To go and live among them rather, mamma; Maurice put it into my head that you might."
She spoke the last sentence timidly; after they had both so avoided Maurice's name, she half dreaded its effect on her mother. But Mrs. Costello only shook her head sadly.
"Maurice thought of a different return from any that would be possible now. Possibly, if all had been as we wished—both he and I—I might have gone over to a part of England so far from the place I left. Say no more of it, dear," she added quickly, "let us make the best of what we have, and try to forget what we have not."