and Winifred said firmly, she would not buy
either her own happiness or his, by desertion
and treachery. So, Louis went to London,
and the day after wrote, so that Winifred
could only reply by releasing him from his
engagement. This release he accepted with
ardent sorrow, but yet with decision; feeling
that he had now given up all chance of peaceful
happiness, and that he must make his life
out of ambition.

So, the lives which should have been
united for ever, became, not only separate
and distinct, but estranged. But though
Louis went back to the world and to the
strife he loved, he was not happy; for he
was not at peace with himself. Even now,
while he still hoped all things from ambition,
and while flushed with the passion and the
eagerness of the combat, he had misgivings,
—indistinct and infrequent, but not the less
real; while Winifred sank into a silent,
sorrowful, prematurely aged woman, whose only
joy was in the love which had cost her all
her happiness. Without Mary, she would
probably have died in the first years of
her widowhood—for it was a true widowhood
for her, so friendless as she was. But the
strength which had enabled her to make the
sacrifice, enabled her to support it; and the
love which had demanded it, rewarded her.

Winifred's mother died not long after this,
and Winifred left South Shore with the child.
They went into Devonshire, where they took
a house in the most beautiful part of the
county, and where they lived peaceful and
retired—Mary's education the occupation of
Winifred's life. Bearing the same name,
Mary passed there for Winifred's niece, and
even the motherly way in which she spoke
to her, and Mary's calling her, "Mamma
Winny," did not bring suspicion on them;
for, as people said, if there had been
anything to conceal, why did they not conceal it?
And why did they come as strangers to a
place advertising themselves as unworthy of
notice, when they might so easily have avoided
all suspicion? So that Winifred found her
life pass more easily here than even in her old
house; and gradually her spirits gained, if
not joyousness, at least peace.

Mary was now a beautiful girl of about
eighteen or nineteen—a noble, animated
creature, all life and love, and enthusiasm,
and innocence. Just, free-spirited, with
bright eyes and bright hair, a bright quick
colour, and a voice that was like a silver
bell; seeing all things through the clear air
of her own hope and love, making a very
sunshine round her path, and wherever
she went taking joy and smiles with her;
the true ideal of a glad-hearted girl. This
was the development of that turbulent
baby kicking in its cradle nineteen years
ago. She seemed to have robbed Winifred of
all her life, so exuberant was her own, so
pale and depreciated her poor foster-mother's.
All Winifred's beauty had gone with her
youth. Her black hair had grown thin and
grey, her laughing eyes were dim; her lips
had lost their tint, her cheeks were pale
and hollow; not a trace of any possible beauty
in the past was left on her face; and no
one who saw her for the first time would
believe that as a young girl she had been
even more than ordinarily pretty. But it
had been a beauty merely of youth, passing
with the bright skin and the happy smile of
youth, and leaving the ill-formed features,
with all their want of regularity exaggerated
and unsoftened.

In the midst of his ambition, Louis Blake
still remembered Winifred. She was the
only woman he had ever loved, and as time
gave its romance to the past, it seemed as if
he had loved her even more ardently than
was true. He had gained all he had striven
for in life; he was rich and powerful, and
his highest flights of ambition were realised.
But his heart was empty; his home was
solitary. He blamed himself for the part he
had acted; and, secure of his position now,
thought he had been even unwise in not
associating Winifred and all her life with
him. He would have been strong enough to
have borne them up the ladder with him,
and she would have lived down the petty
calumny that endeavoured to destroy her
beautiful action. For it was beautiful; yes,
he recognised that now. Full of these
thoughts, and just at the age when the man
who has been ambitious in his youth wishes
to be domestic in his maturity, he made
inquiries about Winifred at her old home;
and learning her address there, he set off
suddenly to Devonshire, to renew his
acquaintance—perhaps his love, who knows?—
with his former friend and fiancée. But Louis
made one fatal mistake. He did not realise
the years that had passed since he parted
with Winifred. It was always the same
Winifred whom he left sitting on the ground,
playing with a baby girl—her black hair falling
far below her waist, and her dark eyes
bright and clear—whom he expected to find
again. All the world told him—and he knew
without vanity, that it was true—that time had
been his friend. His curly chesnut hair, a little
worn about the temples, had not a silver line
in it; his bearing was more manly, and his
figure better developed than when Winifred
saw him last; success had given him a certain
commanding manner which might easily pass
for majesty; and constant intercourse with
the world, a profound insight into human
nature. He was eminently one of the present
generation—one of the men whose mind and
character influence their whole circle. Handsome,
noble, and capable, he was a very king
and hero to the minds of most women;
against whom not the most beautiful youth
in the world, were he Apollo himself, would
have had a chance of success; and who, like
a veritable monarch, might have chosen his
queen wheresoever he listed. And he thought