acted mechanically. A kind of moral catalepsy benumbed her. Afterwards
when she remembered this time, she wondered at herself; she could not
comprehend the absence of sensation with which she had left the dear
home and all the familiar objects of her whole life, the incapability of
feeling either keen sorrow at the parting, or hope in the unknown
future. The days they spent in hurrying hour by hour further away from
Canada, always remained in her recollection little more than a blank,
and she scarcely seemed to recover herself until Mr. Strafford touched
her gently on the shoulder, late in the evening and said,

"New York at last, Lucia."

She got up then, in a hurried, confused way, and looked at her mother
helplessly.

Mrs. Costello, though to some degree she had shared Lucia's stunned
feeling during their journey, had watched her child with considerable
anxiety, and was glad of any change in her manner. She hastened to leave
the train, thinking that the few hours' rest they would have before
going on board the steamer would be the best remedy for this strange
torpor. They found, however, when they reached the Hotel and went to
bed, that weary as they were, they could not sleep. The unaccustomed
noise of the city--the mere sensation of being in a strange place, kept
them both waking, and they were glad to get up early, and go down to the
vast empty drawing-room where Mr. Stafford could join them for the last
time, and talk of the subjects which were near the hearts of all three.
And yet, after all, they did not talk much. Those last hours which are
so precious, and in which we seem to have so much to say, are often
silent ones.