Maurice was too dear to her, for her not to have seen how Lucia's recent and gradual estrangement had troubled him; for his sake, therefore, as well as for her own and her child's, she had grieved daily over what she dared not interfere to prevent,--the breaking up of old habits, and the intervention between these two of an influence she dreaded.

The experience of her own life had convinced her, rightly or wrongly, that it was worse than useless for parents to try to control their children's inclinations in the most important point where inclination ever ought to be made the rule of conduct.

But for years she had hoped that Lucia's affection for Maurice would grow, unchecked and untroubled, till it attained that perfection which she thought the beau ideal of married love; and even now, she held tenaciously to such fragments of her old hope as still remained.

This morning, after a night of the most painful anxiety and foreboding, her mind naturally caught at the idea that _all_ could not go wrong with her; that she must have exaggerated the change in Lucia, and that, at least, some of the trouble she had anticipated for her child was a mere chimera.
She came out to them, therefore, pale and weary from her vigil, but cheerful and composed.
"How is your father, Maurice ?" she asked; "can you stay with us to breakfast ?" "Thank you, no; my father is so much alone.

He seemed better last night.
Your visit did him good." "I am glad of that.