indeed. In their last parting walk round
the garden of the old school-house at
Helmingham, she had hinted something of
this, and he thought he had silenced her on
the point; but her want of hope, her
abnegation of interest, was now much more
pronounced; and against such a feeling he
inveighed with all the strength and power
of his honest soul. If she gave in, what
was to become of them, whose present
discomforts were only made bearable by
anticipation of the time when he would have
her to share his lot?

"And after all, Marian," he had said
in conclusion, "what does it all mean?
This money for which you wish so much
——I find the word studding every few
lines of your letter——this splendour, luxury,
comfort call it by what name you will,
what does it all mean? Who benefits
by it? Not the old gentleman, who has
passed his life in slaving for the acquisition
of wealth! As I understand from
you, his wife is dead, and his son almost
estranged from him. Is this the end of
it? If you could see his inmost heart,
is he not pining for the woman who stood
by his side during the conflict? and does
he not feel the triumph empty and hollow
without her to share it with him? Would
he not sooner have his son's love, and
trust, and confidence, than the conservatory,
and the carriages, and the splendour
on which you dwell so rapturously? If
you could know all, you would learn that
the happiest time of his life was when he
was striving, in company with her he loved,
and that the end now attained, however
grand it may be, however above his original
anticipations, is but poor and vain, now she
is not there to share it with him. Oh,
Marian, my heart's darling, think of this,
and be assured of its truth! So long as
we love each other, so long as the sincerity
of that love gives us confidence in each
other, all will be well, and it will be impossible
to shut out hope. It is only when a
shadow crosses that love, a catastrophe
which seems impossible, but which we
should pray God to avert, that hope can in
the smallest degree diminish. Marian, my
love, my life, think of this as I place it
before you! We are both young, both gifted
with health, and strength, and powers
of endurance. If we fight the battle side
by side, if we are not led away by envy and
induced to fix the standard of our desires
too high, we shall, we must succeed in
attaining what we have so often hopefully
discussed the happiness of being all in all
to each other, and leading our lives
together, 'for better for worse, for richer for
poorer, in sickness and in health, till death
do us part.' I confess I can imagine no
greater bliss——can you?"

He had had no answer to this letter, but
that had not troubled him much. He knew
that Marian was not fond of correspondence,
that in her last letter she had given a full
account of her new life, and that she could
have but little to say; and he was further
aware that a certain feeling of pride would
prevent her from too readily endorsing his
comments on her views; that she agreed
with those comments, or that they would
commend themselves to her natural sound
sense on reflection, he had no doubt; and
he was content to await calmly the issue of
events.

The party assembled were waiting the
announcement of dinner in the library, and
when Joyce entered the room Lord
Hetherington left the rug where he had been
standing with two other gentlemen, and,
advancing towards his secretary, took
his hand, and said: "I am glad her
ladyship has persuaded you to come out of
seclusion, Mr. Joyce! Too much——what is
it?——books, and work, and that kind of
thing, is——is——the deuce, in point of fact!"
And then his lordship went back to the
rug, and Joyce having received a
sufficiently distant bow from Lady Hetherington,
retreated into a darkish corner of
the room, into which the flickering firelight
did not penetrate, and looked around
him.

Lady Hetherington looked splendidly
handsome, he thought. She was dressed
in maroon- coloured velvet, lit up wonderfully
in the firelight, which showed her
classically-shaped head, and head-dress of
velvet and black lace. Joyce had read
much of Juno-looking women, but he
had never realised the idea until he gazed
upon that calm, majestic, imperious face,
so clearly cold in outline, those large,
solemnly-radiant eyes, that splendidly-
moulded figure. The man who was bending
over her chair as he addressed her,
not deferentially, as Joyce felt that——
not from her rank, but rather from her
splendid beauty——she should be addressed,
but on the contrary, rather flippantly,
had a palpable curly wig, shaved cheeks,
waxed moustache, and small white hands,
which he rubbed gently together in front
of him. He was Colonel Tapp, a Crimean
hero, a very Paladin in war, but who had
been worn by time, not into slovenry, but