go abroad again? Why not go to France, to some
cheap place, near Paris? Say Versailles? say
St. Germain? In a nice little French house—
cheap? With a nice French bonne to cook—who
wouldn't waste his substance in the grease-pot?
With a nice little garden—where he could work
himself, and get health, and save the expense of
keeping a gardener? It wasn't a bad idea? And
it seemed to promise well for the future—didn't
it, Lecount?

So he ran on—the poor, weak creature! the
abject, miserable little man!

As the darkness gathered, at the close of the
short November day, he began to grow drowsy
—his ceaseless questions came to an end at last
—he fell asleep. The wind outside sang its
mournful winter-song; the tramp of passing
footsteps, the roll of passing wheels on the road,
ceased in dreary silence. He slept on quietly.
The firelight rose and fell on his wizen little face,
and his nerveless drooping hands. Mrs. Lecount
had not pitied him yet. She began to pity him,
now. Her point was gained; her interest in his
will was secured; he had put his future life, of
his own accord, under her fostering care—the
fire was comfortable; the circumstances were
favourable to the growth of Christian feeling.
"Poor wretch!" said Mrs. Lecount, looking at
him with a grave compassion—"Poor wretch!"

The dinner-hour roused him. He was cheerful
at dinner; he reverted to the idea of the cheap
little house in France; he smirked and simpered;
and talked French to Mrs. Lecount, while the
housemaid and Louisa waited, turn and turn
about, under protest. When dinner was over,
he returned to his comfortable chair before the
fire, and Mrs. Lecount followed him. He
resumed the conversation—which meant, in his
case, repeating his questions. But he was not
so quick and ready with them, as he had been
earlier in the day. They began to flag—they
continued, at longer and longer intervals—they
ceased altogether. Towards nine o'clock he fell
asleep again.

It was not a quiet sleep this time. He muttered,
and ground his teeth, and rolled his head
from side to side of the chair. Mrs. Lecount
purposely made noise enough to rouse him. He
woke with a vacant eye, and a flushed cheek.
He walked about the room restlessly, with a new
idea in his mind—the idea of writing a terrible
letter; a letter of eternal farewell to his wife.
How was it to be written? In what language
should he express his feelings? The powers of
Shakespeare himself would be unequal to the
emergency! He had been the victim of an
outrage entirely without parallel. A wretch had
crept into his bosom! A viper had hidden
herself at his fireside! Where could words be
found to brand her with the infamy she deserved?
He stopped, with a suffocating sense in him of
his own impotent rage—he stopped, and shook
his fist tremulously in the empty air.

Mrs. Lecount interfered with an energy and a
resolution inspired by serious alarm. After the
heavy strain that had been laid on his weakness
already, such an outbreak of passionate agitation
as was now bursting from him, might be the
destruction of his rest that night, and of his strength
to travel the next day. With infinite difficulty,
with endless promises to return to the subject,
and to advise him about it in the morning, she
prevailed on him, at last, to go up-stairs and
compose himself for the night. She gave him
her arm to assist him. On the way up-stairs, his
attention, to her great relief, became suddenly
absorbed by a new fancy. He remembered a
certain warm and comforting mixture of wine,
egg, sugar, and spices, which she had often been
accustomed to make for him, in former times;
and which he thought he should relish
exceedingly, before he went to bed. Mrs. Lecount
helped him on with his dressing-gown—then
went down stairs again, to make his warm drink
for him at the parlour fire.

She rang the bell, and ordered the necessary
ingredients for the mixture, in Noel Vanstone's
name. The servants, with the small ingenious
malice of their race, brought up the materials,
one by one, and kept her waiting for each of them
as long as possible. She had got the saucepan,
and the spoon, and the tumbler, and the nutmeg-
grater, and the wine—but not the egg, the sugar,
or the spices—when she heard him above, walking
backwards and forwards noisily in his room;
exciting himself on the old subject again, beyond
all doubt.

She went up-stairs once more; but he was too
quick for her—he heard her outside the door;
and when she opened it, she found him in his
chair, with his back cunningly turned towards
her. Knowing him too well, to attempt any
remonstrance, she merely announced the speedy
arrival of the warm drink, and turned to leave
the room. On her way out, she noticed a table
in a corner, with an inkstand and a paper-case on
it, and tried, without attracting his attention, to
take the writing materials away. He was too
quick for her again. He asked angrily, if she
doubted his promise. She put the writing
materials back on the table, for fear of offending
him, and left the room.

In half an hour more, the mixture was ready.
She carried it up to him, foaming and fragrant,
in a large tumbler. "He will sleep after this,"
she thought to herself, as she opened the door;
"I have made it stronger than usual, on
purpose."

He had changed his place. He was sitting at
the table in the corner—still with his back to her
—writing. This time, his quick ears had not
served him. This time, she had caught him in
the fact.

"Oh, Mr. Noel! Mr. Noel!" she said,
reproachfully, "what is your promise worth?"

He made no answer. He was sitting with his
left elbow on the table, and with his head resting
on his left hand. His right hand lay back on the
paper, with the pen lying loose in it. "Your
drink, Mr. Noel," she said in a kinder tone,