with a dark resplendence,—we leave him
until to-morrow.

CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

A WINTRY night in the outskirts of London,
snow on the ground; deep already,
and deepening at every moment. The air is
thick with large flakes that fall noiseless on
road and pavement, on house-roof and church
steeple, on pillared porch and garden wall.
It was bitterly cold. The snow that had
fallen was not soft, but frozen into a cruel
hardness. Footsteps left hardly any imprint
in it, and the track of wheels and horses'
hoofs that the day's traffic had left had been
long since effaced, and no new vehicles came
down the quiet district to renew them.
Houses, houses, houses on all sides, but
jealously closed: only a hall lamp shining at
rare intervals through a fanlight. No cheerful
glow came through crimson curtains, a
generous contingent from some warm cosy
nest to the bleak, bare, outside night. All
without is silent, blank, chill. What is it
within one of these "handsome houses,
where the wealthy" City men and merchants
dwell? For this is a suburb of "first class
villa residences.''

Through the blinding snow—through the
relentless biting cold,a gentleman who, having
newly emerged from a neighbouring omnibus,
afforded a black relief to the unmitigated
pallor of surrounding things, dashed
on, very quickly and determinedly. His colour
was fast changing however, first to iron grey,
then to pepper and salt, and finally to salt
by itself. He reached his destination, rang at
the bell, as he entered by a wide gate into what
under its white masquerade dress, seemed to
be a garden and shrubberies: then sprung
up some steps, knocked loudly at a door
whose massive oak and awful knobs even the
snow had respected, and shook himself free
from the cloudy flakes that covered him.
One more look out into the forbidding
night; one more instinctive shiver and
shrinking from the rude gust that came,
with snow for its ally, right in his face. Then
the door flew open and he stepped in. The
massive portal closed behind him. Where
was the harsh night gone? What had become
of the incarnate dreariness? the black
vault above; the lurid desolation of the world
below?

Here was a wide hall, well lit by two
swinging lamps of painted glass, that looked
like ripe summer fruits hanging from a
garden wall; pictures rich and warm in
colour; and one or two statues. A fair
white Welcome stood on one side, holding
out her hands and smiling with her lip, her
eyes, her brow, with every curve of her
gracious face and figure; and a Peace, not
needing to smile, her look was so serene, with
her arms folded purely over the book she
held to her breast, and her olive-wreath
changed for one of Christmas holly, red-
berried. shining-leaved. that another hand
than the sculptor's had placed there. Evergreens
decked the walls, the picture-frames,
the lamps;—and the fragrance of bay-leaves
scented the warm air. The newly-arrived
guest looked round; as if with dazzled eyes,
passed his hand across his brow,—while
the servant relieved him of his hat and his
cloak. And now, sound begins to add itself
to the other accompaniments of the scene:
a warm, happy murmur of voices, through
which, presently, a light, tremulous, girlish
laugh is embroidered like a silver thread on
crimson. And then some cunning hand
evokes a passionate flood of sound from the
pianoforte: it rises, it sinks, and swells,
and rises again, and falls in tiny crystal
droplets, and then ceases. For the dining-
room door has been opened, and our some-
time wayfarer in the snow has entered.

A large room, glowing warmly with crimson,
and opening into a smaller one, beyond
which again the faint light of a pendant
lamp reveals a tiny conservatory. They are
seated round the blazing fire in the first room,
all but the one who stands by the piano—
her white fingers yet poised over the ivory
keys. A hale, handsome old man, two little
girls nestling on the hearth-rug, very fairy
princesses, of blue eyes, golden hair, and
dainty apparel; an older boy poring over a
book, and bright-faced Agnes Ross, her look
alert and flashing, her whole countenance
radiant and happy, seated on the sofa, the
other place on which has been just vacated
by Rosamond.

Oh, happiest Rosamond! She looked up
and saw the figure standing in the doorway.

"Leonard! Oh, I knew it was you."

They gathered round him: his sister,
with a fond embrace; the children, in much
demonstrative glee; even slow-moving Mr.
Bellew rose from his chair, and met him with
outstretched hand.

"The train was late," he observed, as he
seated himself. "Delayed one hour by
the great snows." Agnes made Leonard
take her place. He sat beside Rosamond
on the sofa, and then his sister attacked
him volubly with inquiries as to how he
had travelled? was he tired? had he
dined? But the questions answered, he
leaned back, glad to be silent, perhaps.
The picture was complete. Laughing children,
the sweep of soft rich drapery, the pearl-like
light of lamps, the cordial sound of the flaming
fire, and the sweet luscious odours that stole
in from the neighbouring flowers: luxurious
allurements and gratifications for the senses,
refined and subtle as the tastes they wooed
and won—all were here.

Leonard again passed his hand over his
brow.

"Dearest, you are tired," whispered Rosamond,
bending close to him in sweet, sudden
anxiety. Her hand timidly touched his
shoulder. He took it in his own, and looked at
it; the fair, soft, little hand, the delicate wrist