The wedding-day was fixed; and Lucia found herself left, at last, almost without a voice in the decision of her own destiny.
And yet, these last weeks of her girlhood were almost too happy.

She went over several times with her mother and Lady Dighton to Hunsdon, and grew familiar with her future home; she saw the charming rooms that were being prepared for herself, and could sit down in the midst of all this new wealth and luxury, and talk with Maurice about the old times when they had no splendour, but little less happiness than now; and she had delicious hours of castle-building, sometimes alone, sometimes with her betrothed, which were pleasanter than any actual realization of their dreams could be.
Of course, they had endless talks, in which they said the same things over and over again, or said nothing at all; but they knew each other so thoroughly now, and each was so completely acquainted with all the other's past that there was truly nothing for them to tell or to hear, except the one old story which is always new.
One day, however, Maurice came over to Dighton in a great hurry, with a letter for Lucia to read.

He took her out into the garden, and when they were quite alone he took it out and showed it to her.
"What is it ?" she said.

"It looks like a French letter." "It is French.

Do you remember your friend, Father Paul ?" "Of course.