long separation from one who was almost like
a child to her. Ellinor was, as it were, lifted
off her feet and borne away by the unanimous
opinion of others—the doctor included—who
decided that such a step was highly desirable,
if not absolutely necessary. She knew that
she had only a life interest both in her father's
property and in that bequeathed to her by Mr.
Ness. Hitherto she had not felt much troubled
by this, as she had supposed that in the natural
course of events she should survive Miss Monro
and Dixon, both of whom she looked upon as
dependent upon her. All she had to bequeath to
the two, were the small savings, which would
not nearly suffice for both purposes, especially
considering that Miss Monro had given up her
teaching, and that both she and Dixon were
passing into years.

Before Ellinor left England she had made
every arrangement for the contingency of her
death abroad that Mr. Johnson could suggest.
She had written and sent a long letter to
Dixon; and a shorter one was left in charge of
Canon Livingstone (she dared not hint at the
possibility of her dying to Miss Monro) to be
sent to the old man.

As they drove out of the King's Cross station,
they passed a gentleman's carriage entering.
Ellinor saw a bright handsome lady, a
nurse, and baby inside, and a gentleman sitting
by them whose face she could never forget. It
was Mr. Corbet taking his wife and child to the
railway. They were going on a Christmas visit
to East Chester deanery. He had been leaning
back, not noticing the passers-by, not attending
to the other inmates of the carriage, probably
absorbed in the consideration of some law case.
Such were the casual glimpses Ellinor had of
one, with whose life she had once thought herself
bound up.

Who so proud as Miss Monro when a foreign
letter came? Her correspondent was not particularly
graphic in her descriptions, nor were there
any adventures to be described, nor was the
habit of mind of Ellinor such as to make her clear
and definite in her own impressions from what
she saw, and her natural reserve kept her from
being fluent in communicating them even to Miss
Monro. But that lady would have been pleased
to read aloud these letters to the assembled dean
and canons, and would not have been surprised
if they had invited her to the chapter-house for
that purpose. To her circle of untravelled
ladies, ignorant of Murray, but laudibly
desirous of information, all Ellinor's historical
reminiscences, and rather formal details were
really interesting. There was no railroad in
those days between Lyons and Marseilles, so
their progress was slow, and the passage of
letters to and fro, when they had arrived in
Rome, long and uncertain. But all seemed
going on well. Ellinor spoke of herself as in
better health; and Canon Livingstone (between
whom and Miss Monro great intimacy had
sprung up since Ellinor had gone away, and
Miss Monro could ask him to tea) confirmed
this report of Miss Wilkins's health from a
letter which he had received from Mrs. Forbes.
Curiosity about that letter was Miss Monro's
torment. What could they have had to write
to each other about! It was a very odd proceeding;
although the Livingstones and Forbeses
were distantly related, after the manner of Scotland.
Could it have been that he had offered
to Euphemia, after all, and that her mother
had answered; or, possibly, there was a letter
from Effie herself, enclosed? It was a pity for
Miss Monro's peace of mind that she did not ask
him straight away. She would then have learnt
what Canon Livingstone had no thought of
concealing, that Mrs. Forbes had written solely to
give him some fuller directions about certain
charities than she had had time to think about
in the hurry of starting. As it was, and when
a little later on, she heard him speak of the
possibility of his going himself to Rome, when
his term of residence was over, in time for the
Carnival, she gave up her fond project in
despair, and felt very much like a child whose
house of bricks had been knocked down by the
unlucky waft of some passing petticoat.

Meanwhile, the entire change of scene brought
on the exquisite refreshment of entire change
of thought. Ellinor had not been able so
completely to forget her past life for many years;
it was like a renewing of her youth; cut so
suddenly short by the shears of fate. Ever since
that night, she had had to rouse herself on
awakening in the morning into a full comprehension
of the great cause she had for much fear
and heavy grief. Now, when she wakened in
her little room, fourth piano, No. 36, Babuino,
she saw the strange pretty things around her,
and her mind went off into pleasant wonder and
conjecture, happy recollections of the day before,
and pleasant anticipations of the day to come.
Latent in Ellinor was her father's artistic
temperament; everything new and strange was a
picture and a delight; the merest group in the
street, a Roman facchino, with his cloak draped
over his shoulder, a girl going to market or
carrying her pitcher back from the fountain,
everything, and every person that presented it, or
himself, to her senses gave them a delicious shock,
as if it were something strangely familiar from
Pinelli, but unseen by her mortal eyes before.
She forgot her despondency, her ill health
disappeared as if by magic; the Misses Forbes, who
had taken the pensive drooping invalid as a
companion out of kindness of heart, found
themselves amply rewarded by the sight of her
amended health, and her keen enjoyment of
everything, and the half-quaint, half-naïve
expressions of her pleasure.

So March came round; Lent was late that
year. The great nosegays of violets and camellias
were for sale at the corner of the Condotti,
and the revellers had no difficulty in procuring
much rarer flowers for the belles of the Corso.
The embassies had their balconies; the attachés
of the Russian embassy threw their light and
lovely presents at every pretty girl, or suspicion
of a pretty girl, who passed slowly in her carriage,
covered over with her white domino, and