hopeful and happy, that I should not be
afraid to look back."

"You have a brave heart, Jessica, which
I knew was in you. I would wager my
life that if I had the whole history and
details of your struggle with that poor girl,
from the beginning to the last day of her
life, it would be all to your honour. And
for her, I will say if she had had time she
would have done you justice also."

A sort of tremor passed over Jessica,
but she said nothing. That indeed was the
only shadow, and she again thought it
might have been wiser to have told him of
the last scene.

Next day they were travelling home. A
great mail of letters had reached them at
the little town, full of good news, of hope
and encouragement. One spoke of an
opening for the House of Commons.
Another said that as the ministry was certain
to change, an influential friend would come
in with the new one, who was determined
that his friend Conway should hold some
sort of office. This was all delightful.

They got on to Chester, where they were
to stop for the night, and walked through
its quaint old streets, new to both. They
had come back to their hotel, and were
standing on the railway platform, watching
the various expresses come up, when Jessica
whispered him:

"See that man's face looking out of the
carriage? Is it not like Colonel Dudley?"

"Like!" said Conway, laughing. "It is
Dudley himself."

Under a fur cap was seen Dudley's face,
in a sort of abstraction, much more worn
than when they had last parted with him.
Beside him were gun cases, hunting saddles,
&c. He seemed to be going on up to
London. She saw him speaking to
Conway at the carriage door, then rise hastily,
gather up all his packages, and step down
with great eagerness on the platform. With
a sort of undefined trepidation she said to
Conway, "He is not going to stay?"

"He says he will stay for the night," her
husband answered. "He says he is tired.
Poor soul! he is as low and dismal as ever,
and I suppose is glad to meet some one he
knows—"

"Then we need not see him," she said,
eagerly; "it will do us no good. Some
fate seems always dragging us back to that
time."

Dudley now came up. He looked at
Jessica with a strange glance. "Is it
not wonderful how people meet? There
were about a million chances against our
coming together at this time, and at this
place. And yet I was thinking of you both
only this morning. Let me come up to you
this evening, if Mrs. Conway will give me
leave. I find myself the worst company
in the world."

"Then you must not be too critical with
us, who are the best company in the world
for each other."

Dudley looked from one to the other with
piercing greedy eyes. Then his face broke
into a confident smile.

"Ah, I see. Yours is to be an everlasting
honeymoon!"

In the evening he came up to their sitting-room.
He told them how he had been
in Ireland, shooting, hunting, "trying to
get an Irish horse or an Irish fence to break
my neck. But they wouldn't do it. That
old nightmare is still on me; in fact, it
grows heavier every day. I cannot shut
out that place. I never see a bridge but it
recals that bridge. I was on the banks of
one the other day, and so like the spot, that
I forgot, and, turning to the bogtrotter with
me, said, 'it was a scandal and a shame to
have no bridge. Human life might be lost
while they were stupidly sending round
miles.' The animal stared, as you may
suppose."

"Well I think he might," said Conway,
glancing at the distressed face of Jessica.
"I think it is high time now, for the sake
of your own peace of mind, to give over
brooding on these things. It can do you
no good."

"And may do others harm? Well, you
are right; I know you are. But I will tell
you this: it may lead to something yet.
Perhaps has led. Do you know what is
bringing me home? Something about this
very matter. I have never dropped it."

Conway shrugged his shoulders. "I
still think it folly, but you always took your
own course."

"Why," continued the other, "if I were
a detective, or like that American fellow,
Poe, I could work backwards from that
dreadful day, until I landed somewhere.
But I am not, and have worked backwards
in my poor head till my brains are addled.
Some people would say I am mad, on that
subject at least. I daresay you thought so
when I went on so strangely to you both at
the time she was being buried. I saw you
were generous enough, Conway, to make
allowance. But with all my speculation,
one thought certainly has taken possession
of me. She was not alone when she
died."