"Poor boys! You console me, madame, for many sad thoughts. I was a young man then, and, as you see, I am now a very old one, but I have known few more sorrowful days than the one when I left Moose Island."
"Yet it must have been a hard and wearisome life?"
"Hard?—Yes—but not wearisome. We were ready to bear the hardness as long as we hoped to see the fruit of our labours. I thought there had been no fruit, or very little; but you prove to me that I was too faithless."
Mrs. Costello remained a moment silent. She was much inclined to trust her guest with that part of her story which referred to Christian—no doubt he was in the habit of keeping stranger secrets than hers.
While she hesitated he spoke again.
"But the whole face of the country must have changed since I knew it. Did you live in that neighbourhood?"
"For several years—all the first years of my married life, I lived on Moose Island itself, and my daughter—come to me a moment, Lucia,—was born there."
She took Lucia's hand and drew her forward. The remaining daylight fell full upon her dark hair and showed the striking outlines of her face and graceful head.
Father Paul looked in amazement—looked from the daughter to the mother, and the mother to the daughter, not knowing what to think or say.
Mrs. Costello relieved his embarrassment.