was anxious to buy an estate in England, for
which Barnard was trustee. It was a small
one, but he fancied the situation and the
house. The writings were prepared; and
a solicitor was going out to have them executed,
and to receive the money and make
other arrangements, when Mr. Barnard
conceived this idea of substituting me for
the solicitor.

"You shall have your expenses there
and back, and handsome ones, too, out of
which you can squeeze a fortnight's keep.
But you must be back within the month;
no shirking, mind, for I am your warranty,
and get well, too; make use of every hour;
for if you lose this chance, we can't promise
you another."

He has gone. A case with the papers and
a letter of instruction has just come up. A
clerk who brought them counted down fifty
golden sovereigns. It is a dream. Dora
danced round and kissed one of them. If
she were only coming, my love and guardian
angel; but we cannot compass that!
It will be only for one month, and I shall
come back to her happy and strong, and
able to work for our children. Is it a
dream? It is like a wish in a Fairy
Tale. The express leaves to-night at eight.
I shall sleep in London and go on to-
morrow.

Wednesday, London, Charing Cross
Hotel.—Bore the journey wonderfully, getting
better absolutely. This is all hope
dancing before my eyes. No ledger this
morning—my heart is bounding within me.
So curious this great desolate chamber,
where a hundred people are taking breakfast.
Could hear the screaming of the
engine close by. My train, yes, in ten
minutes. Delighful all this excitement. It
is new life—a bright sunny day—the
bustling crowds going by—the gay look
of everything, and the pleasant journey all
before me.

CHAPTER II.

BRUSSELS, SIX P.M.—Such a day. Delicious
sea—happy travellers—charming green
fields, and that strange look of Ostend, the
first foreign place I have ever seen. All
red tiles and potsherds, it seemed to me, at
a distance. The white quays and yellow
houses. Then the trains through the pleasant
Belgian country; the odd faces, and
that singular custom of the guard coming
in so mysteriously at the door, when the
train is at full speed. What things I shall
have to tell and amuse darling Dora,
whose name makes my heart low, only this
excitement prevents me thinking of anything
dismal. I shall write a book of
travels, make a little money, and give it all
to her. But this amazing and delicious
capital! It is awe-striking—so solid and
splendid—and the glorious cathedral! Such
wealth, such gorgeousness to be in the
world, which we do not dream of even.
The trees in the streets, the people sitting
out and taking coffee, the splendid carriages,
and all with such a grand and noble air of
stateliness. I have noted a thousand things
to tell Dora when I return. I feel getting
stronger every moment, and a quarter of
an hour ago read an English paper, without
finding the words swimming, and the
paper rising up to my eyes. I think I shall
go on to-night.

Friday, Cologne.—A long night in the
great roomy carriages, and very comfortable.
A little curtain to draw over the
lamp, and the whole left to myself: so I
might have been in my own room, yet did
not get to sleep till nearly one o'clock; not
so much from noise or novelty, as from my
own thoughts, so much was coming back on
me. This was the first time I had been away
from home, from Dora; and now that I
was at a distance, she, and all that she had
passed, began to rise before me like pictures.
I could see now—like a man walking
back to get a good view of a picture—
her sweet face in the centre, and what a
deal I had gone through to win it for
myself! Though she never shall know it,
much of what I suffer now is owing to that
six years' feverish anxiety. And I saved
her from him. For a time I did feel some
remorse, yet now I do not. It was all for
a good end.

Let me think now, as an entertainment,
of the first bright day on which I saw her.
Some wealthy people, who lived in tolerable
state, had "filled their house," as it is
called, and had asked me down. I was
reluctant to go. In these days—and not
unpleasant days were they—how I lived in
the book world, and very pleasant friends I
had among them. For as Richard of Bury
says, in words that sound like old church
bells, " These are the masters that instruct
us without rods; if you chide them they do
not answer, if you neglect or ill-treat them
they bear no malice. They are always
cheerful, sweet-tempered, ready to talk and
comfort us at any hour of night or day."
For them I felt an affection—they seemed
to me beautiful, with charming faces, and
shall I own it?—some of the prettiest faces
of nature when shown to me, appeared to