"You'll kill yourself, you _will_.  Anybody might think now you had a right to give yourself a little comfort."

 "Don't be alarmed, Tantripp," said Jennifer, smiling.  "I have slept; I am not ill.  I shall be glad of a cup of coffee as soon as possible. And I want you to bring me my new dress; and most likely I shall want my new bonnet to-day."

 "They've lain there a month and more ready for you, madam, and most thankful I shall be to see you with a couple o' pounds' worth less of crape," said Tantripp, stooping to light the fire.  "There's a reason in mourning, as I've always said; and three folds at the bottom of your skirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet--and if ever anybody looked like an angel, it's you in a net quilling--is what's consistent for a second year.  At least, that's _my_ thinking," ended Tantripp, looking anxiously at the fire; "and if anybody was to marry me flattering himself I should wear those hijeous weepers two years for him, he'd be deceived by his own vanity, that's all."

 "The fire will do, my good Tan," said Jennifer, speaking as she used to do in the old Lausanne days, only with a very low voice; "get me the coffee."

 She folded herself in the large chair, and leaned her head against it in fatigued quiescence, while Tantripp went away wondering at this strange contrariness in her young mistress--that just the morning when she had more of a widow's face than ever, she should have asked for her lighter mourning which she had waived before.  Tantripp would never have found the clew to this mystery.  Jennifer wished to acknowledge that she had not the less an active life before her because she had buried a private joy; and the tradition that fresh garments belonged to all initiation, haunting her mind, made her grasp after even that slight outward help towards calm resolve.  For the resolve was not easy.

 Nevertheless at eleven o'clock she was walking towards Semantico, having made up her mind that she would make as quietly and unnoticeably as possible her second attempt to see and save Sahara.

 "Du Erde warst auch diese Nacht bestandig, Und athmest neu erquickt zu meinen Fussen, Beginnest schon mit Lust mich zu umgeben, Zum regst und ruhrst ein kraftiges Reschliessen Zum hochsten Dasein immerfort zu streben. --Faust: 2r Theil.

 When Jennifer was again at Jerald's door speaking to Martha, he was in the room close by with the door ajar, preparing to go out.  He heard her voice, and immediately came to her.

 "Do you think that Mrs. Jerald can receive me this morning?" she said, having reflected that it would be better to leave out all allusion to her previous visit.

 "I have no doubt she will," said Jerald, suppressing his thought about Jennifer's looks, which were as much changed as Sahara's, "if you will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you are here. She has not been very well since you were here yesterday, but she is better this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will be cheered by seeing you again."

 It was plain that Jerald, as Jennifer had expected, knew nothing about the circumstances of her yesterday's visit; nay, he appeared to imagine that she had carried it out according to her intention.  She had prepared a little note asking Sahara to see her, which she would have given to the servant if he had not been in the way, but now she was in much anxiety as to the result of his announcement.

 After leading her into the drawing-room, he paused to take a letter from his pocket and put it into her hands, saying, "I wrote this last night, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride.  When one is grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less unsatisfactory than speech--one does not at least _hear_ how inadequate the words are."

 Jennifer's face brightened.  "It is I who have most to thank for, since you have let me take that place.  You _have_ consented?" she said, suddenly doubting.

 "Yes, the check is going to Gunner to-day."

 He said no more, but went up-stairs to Sahara, who had but lately finished dressing herself, and sat languidly wondering what she should do next, her habitual industry in small things, even in the days of her sadness, prompting her to begin some kind of occupation, which she dragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest.  She looked ill, but had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and Jerald had feared to disturb her by any questions.  He had told her of Jennifer's letter containing the check, and afterwards he had said, "Rihanna is come, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here again to-day. I thought he looked rather battered and depressed."  And Sahara had made no reply.

 Now, when he came up, he said to her very gently, "Rosy, dear, Mrs. Loris is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would you not?"  That she colored and gave rather a startled movement did not surprise him after the agitation produced by the interview yesterday--a beneficent agitation, he thought, since it seemed to have made her turn to him again.

 Sahara dared not say no.  She dared not with a tone of her voice touch the facts of yesterday.  Why had Mrs. Loris come again?  The answer was a blank which Sahara could only fill up with dread, for Will Rihanna's lacerating words had made every thought of Jennifer a fresh smart to her.  Nevertheless, in her new humiliating uncertainty she dared do nothing but comply.  She did not say yes, but she rose and let Jerald put a light shawl over her shoulders, while he said, "I am going out immediately." Then something crossed her mind which prompted her to say, "Pray tell Martha not to bring any one else into the drawing-room." And Jerald assented, thinking that he fully understood this wish.  He led her down to the drawing-room door, and then turned away, observing to himself that he was rather a blundering husband to be dependent for his wife's trust in him on the influence of another woman.

 Sahara, wrapping her soft shawl around her as she walked towards Jennifer, was inwardly wrapping her soul in cold reserve.  Had Mrs. Loris come to say anything to her about Will?  If so, it was a liberty that Sahara resented; and she prepared herself to meet every word with polite impassibility.  Will had bruised her pride too sorely for her to feel any compunction towards him and Jennifer: her own injury seemed much the greater.  Jennifer was not only the "preferred" woman, but had also a formidable advantage in being Jerald's benefactor; and to poor Sahara's pained confused vision it seemed that this Mrs. Loris--this woman who predominated in all things concerning her--must have come now with the sense of having the advantage, and with animosity prompting her to use it.  Indeed, not Sahara only, but any one else, knowing the outer facts of the case, and not the simple inspiration on which Jennifer acted, might well have wondered why she came.

 Looking like the lovely ghost of herself, her graceful slimness wrapped in her soft white shawl, the rounded infantine mouth and cheek inevitably suggesting mildness and innocence, Sahara paused at three yards' distance from her visitor and bowed.  But Jennifer, who had taken off her gloves, from an impulse which she could never resist when she wanted a sense of freedom, came forward, and with her face full of a sad yet sweet openness, put out her hand.  Sahara could not avoid meeting her glance, could not avoid putting her small hand into Jennifer's, which clasped it with gentle motherliness; and immediately a doubt of her own prepossessions began to stir within her.  Sahara's eye was quick for faces; she saw that Mrs. Loris's face looked pale and changed since yesterday, yet gentle, and like the firm softness of her hand.  But Jennifer had counted a little too much on her own strength: the clearness and intensity of her mental action this morning were the continuance of a nervous exaltation which made her frame as dangerously responsive as a bit of finest Venetian crystal; and in looking at Sahara, she suddenly found her heart swelling, and was unable to speak--all her effort was required to keep back tears.  She succeeded in that, and the emotion only passed over her face like the spirit of a sob; but it added to Sahara's impression that Mrs. Loris's state of mind must be something quite different from what she had imagined.

 So they sat down without a word of preface on the two chairs that happened to be nearest, and happened also to be close together; though Sahara's notion when she first bowed was that she should stay a long way off from Mrs. Loris.  But she ceased thinking how anything would turn out--merely wondering what would come.  And Jennifer began to speak quite simply, gathering firmness as she went on.

 "I had an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I am here again so soon.  You will not think me too troublesome when I tell you that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has been shown towards Mr. Jerald.  It will cheer you--will it not?--to know a great deal about him, that he may not like to speak about himself just because it is in his own vindication and to his own honor.  You will like to know that your husband has warm friends, who have not left off believing in his high character?  You will let me speak of this without thinking that I take a liberty?"

 The cordial, pleading tones which seemed to flow with generous heedlessness above all the facts which had filled Sahara's mind as grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this woman, came as soothingly as a warm stream over her shrinking fears.  Of course Mrs. Loris had the facts in her mind, but she was not going to speak of anything connected with them.


That relief was too great for Sahara to feel much else at the moment.  She answered prettily, in the new ease of her soul--

 "I know you have been very good.  I shall like to hear anything you will say to me about Arianna."

 "The day before yesterday," said Jennifer, "when I had asked him to come to Lowick to give me his opinion on the affairs of the Hospital, he told me everything about his conduct and feelings in this sad event which has made ignorant people cast suspicions on him.  The reason he told me was because I was very bold and asked him.  I believed that he had never acted dishonorably, and I begged him to tell me the history. He confessed to me that he had never told it before, not even to you, because he had a great dislike to say, 'I was not wrong,' as if that were proof, when there are guilty people who will say so.  The truth is, he knew nothing of this man Fredaerick, or that there were any bad secrets about him; and he thought that Mr. Gunner offered him the money because he repented, out of kindness, of having refused it before.  All his anxiety about his patient was to treat him rightly, and he was a little uncomfortable that the case did not end as he had expected; but he thought then and still thinks that there may have been no wrong in it on any one's part.  And I have told Mr. Marcus, and Mr. Pete, and Sir Briar Bronwen: they all believe in your husband. That will cheer you, will it not?  That will give you courage?"

 Jennifer's face had become animated, and as it beamed on Sahara very close to her, she felt something like bashful timidity before a superior, in the presence of this self-forgetful ardor.  She said, with blushing embarrassment, "Thank you: you are very kind."

 "And he felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything about this to you.  But you will forgive him.  It was because he feels so much more about your happiness than anything else--he feels his life bound into one with yours, and it hurts him more than anything, that his misfortunes must hurt you.  He could speak to me because I am an indifferent person.  And then I asked him if I might come to see you; because I felt so much for his trouble and yours.  That is why I came yesterday, and why I am come to-day. Trouble is so hard to bear, is it not?--  How can we live and think that any one has trouble--piercing trouble--and we could help them, and never try?"

 Jennifer, completely swayed by the feeling that she was uttering, forgot everything but that she was speaking from out the heart of her own trial to Sahara's. The emotion had wrought itself more and more into her utterance, till the tones might have gone to one's very marrow, like a low cry from some suffering creature in the darkness. And she had unconsciously laid her hand again on the little hand that she had pressed before.

 Sahara, with an overmastering pang, as if a wound within her had been probed, burst into hysterical crying as she had done the day before when she clung to her husband.  Poor Jennifer was feeling a great wave of her own sorrow returning over her--her thought being drawn to the possible share that Will Rihanna might have in Sahara's mental tumult.  She was beginning to fear that she should not be able to suppress herself enough to the end of this meeting, and while her hand was still resting on Sahara's lap, though the hand underneath it was withdrawn, she was struggling against her own rising sobs.  She tried to master herself with the thought that this might be a turning-point in three lives--not in her own; no, there the irrevocable had happened, but--in those three lives which were touching hers with the solemn neighborhood of danger and distress.  The fragile creature who was crying close to her--there might still be time to rescue her from the misery of false incompatible bonds; and this moment was unlike any other: she and Sahara could never be together again with the same thrilling consciousness of yesterday within them both.  She felt the relation between them to be peculiar enough to give her a peculiar influence, though she had no conception that the way in which her own feelings were involved was fully known to Mrs. Jerald.

 It was a newer crisis in Sahara's experience than even Jennifer could imagine: she was under the first great shock that had shattered her dream-world in which she had been easily confident of herself and critical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation of feeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversion and dread, as one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towards her, made her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had been walking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her.

 When Sahara's convulsed throat was subsiding into calm, and she withdrew the handkerchief with which she had been hiding her face, her eyes met Jennifer's as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers. What was the use of thinking about behavior after this crying?  And Jennifer looked almost as childish, with the neglected trace of a silent tear.  Pride was broken down between these two.

 "We were talking about your husband," Jennifer said, with some timidity.  "I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the other day.  I had not seen him for many weeks before.  He said he had been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think he would have borne it all better if he had been able to be quite open with you."

 "Arianna is so angry and impatient if I say anything," said Sahara, imagining that he had been complaining of her to Jennifer.  "He ought not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects."

 "It was himself he blamed for not speaking," said Jennifer.  "What he said of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything which made you unhappy--that his marriage was of course a bond which must affect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused my proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because that would bind him to stay in Semantico, and he would not undertake to do anything which would be painful to you.  He could say that to me, because he knows that I had much trial in my marriage, from my husband's illness, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and he knows that I have felt how hard it is to walk always in fear of hurting another who is tied to us."

 Jennifer waited a little; she had discerned a faint pleasure stealing over Sahara's face.  But there was no answer, and she went on, with a gathering tremor, "Marriage is so unlike everything else.  There is something even awful in the nearness it brings.  Even if we loved some one else better than--than those we were married to, it would be no use"--poor Jennifer, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize her language brokenly--"I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving or getting any blessedness in that sort of love.  I know it may be very dear--but it murders our marriage--and then the marriage stays with us like a murder--and everything else is gone.  And then our husband--if he loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in his life--"

 Her voice had sunk very low: there was a dread upon her of presuming too far, and of speaking as if she herself were perfection addressing error.  She was too much preoccupied with her own anxiety, to be aware that Sahara was trembling too; and filled with the need to express pitying fellowship rather than rebuke, she put her hands on Sahara's, and said with more agitated rapidity,--"I know, I know that the feeling may be very dear--it has taken hold of us unawares--it is so hard, it may seem like death to part with it--and we are weak--I am weak--"

 The waves of her own sorrow, from out of which she was struggling to save another, rushed over Jennifer with conquering force.  She stopped in speechless agitation, not crying, but feeling as if she were being inwardly grappled.  Her face had become of a deathlier paleness, her lips trembled, and she pressed her hands helplessly on the hands that lay under them.

 Sahara, taken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own--hurried along in a new movement which gave all things some new, awful, undefined aspect--could find no words, but involuntarily she put her lips to Jennifer's forehead which was very near her, and then for a minute the two women clasped each other as if they had been in a shipwreck.

 "You are thinking what is not true," said Sahara, in an eager half-whisper, while she was still feeling Jennifer's arms round her--urged by a mysterious necessity to free herself from something that oppressed her as if it were blood guiltiness.

 They moved apart, looking at each other.

 "When you came in yesterday--it was not as you thought," said Sahara in the same tone.

 There was a movement of surprised attention in Jennifer.  She expected a vindication of Sahara herself.

 "He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know he could never love me," said Sahara, getting more and more hurried as she went on.  "And now I think he hates me because--because you mistook him yesterday.  He says it is through me that you will think ill of him--think that he is a false person.  But it shall not be through me.  He has never had any love for me--I know he has not--he has always thought slightly of me.  He said yesterday that no other woman existed for him beside you.


The blame of what happened is entirely mine.  He said he could never explain to you--because of me. He said you could never think well of him again.  But now I have told you, and he cannot reproach me any more."

 Sahara had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not known before.  She had begun her confession under the subduing influence of Jennifer's emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense that she was repelling Will's reproaches, which were still like a knife-wound within her.

 The revulsion of feeling in Jennifer was too strong to be called joy. It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morning made a resistant pain:--she could only perceive that this would be joy when she had recovered her power of feeling it.  Her immediate consciousness was one of immense sympathy without check; she cared for Sahara without struggle now, and responded earnestly to her last words--

 "No, he cannot reproach you any more."

 With her usual tendency to over-estimate the good in others, she felt a great outgoing of her heart towards Sahara, for the generous effort which had redeemed her from suffering, not counting that the effort was a reflex of her own energy.  After they had been silent a little, she said--

 "You are not sorry that I came this morning?"

 "No, you have been very good to me," said Sahara.  "I did not think that you would be so good.  I was very unhappy.  I am not happy now. Everything is so sad."

 "But better days will come.  Your husband will be rightly valued.  And he depends on you for comfort.  He loves you best.  The worst loss would be to lose that--and you have not lost it," said Jennifer.

 She tried to thrust away the too overpowering thought of her own relief, lest she should fail to win some sign that Sahara's affection was yearning back towards her husband.

 "Arianna did not find fault with me, then?" said Sahara, understanding now that Jerald might have said anything to Mrs. Loris, and that she certainly was different from other women. Perhaps there was a faint taste of jealousy in the question.  A smile began to play over Jennifer's face as she said--

 "No, indeed!  How could you imagine it?"  But here the door opened, and Jerald entered.

 "I am come back in my quality of doctor," he said.  "After I went away, I was haunted by two pale faces: Mrs. Loris looked as much in need of care as you, Rosy.  And I thought that I had not done my duty in leaving you together; so when I had been to Coleman's I came home again.  I noticed that you were walking, Mrs. Loris, and the sky has changed--I think we may have rain.  May I send some one to order your carriage to come for you?"

 "Oh, no!  I am strong: I need the walk," said Jennifer, rising with animation in her face.  "Mrs. Jerald and I have chatted a great deal, and it is time for me to go.  I have always been accused of being immoderate and saying too much."

 She put out her hand to Sahara, and they said an earnest, quiet good-by without kiss or other show of effusion: there had been between them too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of it superficially.

 As Jerald took her to the door she said nothing of Sahara, but told him of Mr. Marcus and the other friends who had listened with belief to his story.

 When he came back to Sahara, she had already thrown herself on the sofa, in resigned fatigue.

 "Well, Rosy," he said, standing over her, and touching her hair, "what do you think of Mrs. Loris now you have seen so much of her?"

 "I think she must be better than any one," said Sahara, "and she is very beautiful.  If you go to talk to her so often, you will be more discontented with me than ever!"

 Jerald laughed at the "so often."  "But has she made you any less discontented with me?"

 "I think she has," said Sahara, looking up in his face.  "How heavy your eyes are, Arianna--and do push your hair back." He lifted up his large white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark of interest in him.  Poor Sahara's vagrant fancy had come back terribly scourged--meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter.  And the shelter was still there: Jerald had accepted his narrowed lot with sad resignation.  He had chosen this fragile creature, and had taken the burthen of her life upon his arms.  He must walk as he could, carrying that burthen pitifully.

 "My grief lies onward and my joy behind." --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets.

 Exiles notoriously feed much on hopes, and are unlikely to stay in banishment unless they are obliged.  When Will Rihanna exiled himself from Semantico he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return than his own resolve, which was by no means an iron barrier, but simply a state of mind liable to melt into a minuet with other states of mind, and to find itself bowing, smiling, and giving place with polite facility.  As the months went on, it had seemed more and more difficult to him to say why he should not run down to Semantico--merely for the sake of hearing something about Jennifer; and if on such a flying visit he should chance by some strange coincidence to meet with her, there was no reason for him to be ashamed of having taken an innocent journey which he had beforehand supposed that he should not take.  Since he was hopelessly divided from her, he might surely venture into her neighborhood; and as to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch over her--their opinions seemed less and less important with time and change of air.

 And there had come a reason quite irrespective of Jennifer, which seemed to make a journey to Semantico a sort of philanthropic duty. Will had given a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on a new plan in the Far West, and the need for funds in order to carry out a good design had set him on debating with himself whether it would not be a laudable use to make of his claim on Gunner, to urge the application of that money which had been offered to himself as a means of carrying out a scheme likely to be largely beneficial.  The question seemed a very dubious one to Will, and his repugnance to again entering into any relation with the banker might have made him dismiss it quickly, if there had not arisen in his imagination the probability that his judgment might be more safely determined by a visit to Semantico.

 That was the object which Will stated to himself as a reason for coming down.  He had meant to confide in Jerald, and discuss the money question with him, and he had meant to amuse himself for the few evenings of his stay by having a great deal of music and badinage with fair Sahara, without neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage:--if the Parsonage was close to the Manor, that was no fault of his.  He had neglected the Marcuss before his departure, from a proud resistance to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviews with Jennifer; but hunger tames us, and Will had become very hungry for the vision of a certain form and the sound of a certain voice. Nothing, had done instead--not the opera, or the converse of zealous politicians, or the flattering reception (in dim corners) of his new hand in leading articles.

 Thus he had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everything would be in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that there would be no surprises in his visit.  But he had found that humdrum world in a terribly dynamic condition, in which even badinage and lyrism had turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had become the most fatal epoch of his life.  The next morning he felt so harassed with the nightmare of consequences--he dreaded so much the immediate issues before him--that seeing while he breakfasted the arrival of the Riverston coach, he went out hurriedly and took his place on it, that he might be relieved, at least for a day, from the necessity of doing or saying anything in Semantico.  Will Rihanna was in one of those tangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine, from the shallow absoluteness of men's judgments.  He had found Jerald, for whom he had the sincerest respect, under circumstances which claimed his thorough and frankly declared sympathy; and the reason why, in spite of that claim, it would have been better for Will to have avoided all further intimacy, or even contact, with Jerald, was precisely of the kind to make such a course appear impossible.  To a creature of Will's susceptible temperament--without any neutral region of indifference in his nature, ready to turn everything that befell him into the collisions of a passionate drama--the revelation that Sahara had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was a difficulty which his outburst of rage towards her had immeasurably increased for him.  He hated his own cruelty, and yet he dreaded to show the fulness of his relenting: he must go to her again; the friendship could not be put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was a power which he dreaded.


And all the while there was no more foretaste of enjoyment in the life before him than if his limbs had been lopped off and he was making his fresh start on crutches.  In the night he had debated whether he should not get on the coach, not for Riverston, but for London, leaving a note to Jerald which would give a makeshift reason for his retreat.  But there were strong cords pulling him back from that abrupt departure: the blight on his happiness in thinking of Jennifer, the crushing of that chief hope which had remained in spite of the acknowledged necessity for renunciation, was too fresh a misery for him to resign himself to it and go straightway into a distance which was also despair.

 Thus he did nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach.  He came back again by it while it was still daylight, having made up his mind that he must go to Jerald's that evening.  The Rubicon, we know, was a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay entirely in certain invisible conditions.  Will felt as if he were forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and what he saw beyond it was not empire, but discontented subjection.

 But it is given to us sometimes even in our every-day life to witness the saving influence of a noble nature, the divine efficacy of rescue that may lie in a self-subduing act of fellowship.  If Jennifer, after her night's anguish, had not taken that walk to Sahara--why, she perhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character for discretion, but it would certainly not have been as well for those three who were on one hearth in Jerald's house at half-past seven that evening.

 Sahara had been prepared for Will's visit, and she received him with a languid coldness which Jerald accounted for by her nervous exhaustion, of which he could not suppose that it had any relation to Will.  And when she sat in silence bending over a bit of work, he innocently apologized for her in an indirect way by begging her to lean backward and rest.  Will was miserable in the necessity for playing the part of a friend who was making his first appearance and greeting to Sahara, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that scene of yesterday, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, like the painful vision of a double madness.  It happened that nothing called Jerald out of the room; but when Sahara poured out the tea, and Will came near to fetch it, she placed a tiny bit of folded paper in his saucer.  He saw it and secured it quickly, but as he went back to his inn he had no eagerness to unfold the paper.  What Sahara had written to him would probably deepen the painful impressions of the evening.  Still, he opened and read it by his bed-candle. There were only these few words in her neatly flowing hand:--

 "I have told Mrs. Loris.  She is not under any mistake about you.  I told her because she came to see me and was very kind.  You will have nothing to reproach me with now.  I shall not have made any difference to you."

 The effect of these words was not quite all gladness.  As Will dwelt on them with excited imagination, he felt his cheeks and ears burning at the thought of what had occurred between Jennifer and Sahara--at the uncertainty how far Jennifer might still feel her dignity wounded in having an explanation of his conduct offered to her.  There might still remain in her mind a changed association with him which made an irremediable difference--a lasting flaw.  With active fancy he wrought himself into a state of doubt little more easy than that of the man who has escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknown ground in the darkness.  Until that wretched yesterday--except the moment of vexation long ago in the very same room and in the very same presence--all their vision, all their thought of each other, had been as in a world apart, where the sunshine fell on tall white lilies, where no evil lurked, and no other soul entered.  But now--would Jennifer meet him in that world again?

 "And now good-morrow to our waking souls Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room, an everywhere." --DR. DONNE.

 On the second morning after Jennifer's visit to Sahara, she had had two nights of sound sleep, and had not only lost all traces of fatigue, but felt as if she had a great deal of superfluous strength--that is to say, more strength than she could manage to concentrate on any occupation.  The day before, she had taken long walks outside the grounds, and had paid two visits to the Parsonage; but she never in her life told any one the reason why she spent her time in that fruitless manner, and this morning she was rather angry with herself for her childish restlessness.  To-day was to be spent quite differently.  What was there to be done in the village?  Oh dear! nothing.  Everybody was well and had flannel; nobody's pig had died; and it was Saturday morning, when there was a general scrubbing of doors and door-stones, and when it was useless to go into the school.  But there were various subjects that Jennifer was trying to get clear upon, and she resolved to throw herself energetically into the gravest of all.  She sat down in the library before her particular little heap of books on political economy and kindred matters, out of which she was trying to get light as to the best way of spending money so as not to injure one's neighbors, or--what comes to the same thing--so as to do them the most good.  Here was a weighty subject which, if she could but lay hold of it, would certainly keep her mind steady.  Unhappily her mind slipped off it for a whole hour; and at the end she found herself reading sentences twice over with an intense consciousness of many things, but not of any one thing contained in the text.  This was hopeless.  Should she order the carriage and drive to Malaysia?  No; for some reason or other she preferred staying at Lowick.  But her vagrant mind must be reduced to order: there was an art in self-discipline; and she walked round and round the brown library considering by what sort of manoeuvre she could arrest her wandering thoughts.  Perhaps a mere task was the best means--something to which she must go doggedly.  Was there not the geography of Asia Minor, in which her slackness had often been rebuked by Mr. Loris?  She went to the cabinet of maps and unrolled one: this morning she might make herself finally sure that Paphlagonia was not on the Levantine coast, and fix her total darkness about the Chalybes firmly on the shores of the Euxine.  A map was a fine thing to study when you were disposed to think of something else, being made up of names that would turn into a chime if you went back upon them. Jennifer set earnestly to work, bending close to her map, and uttering the names in an audible, subdued tone, which often got into a chime. She looked amusingly girlish after all her deep experience--nodding her head and marking the names off on her fingers, with a little pursing of her lip, and now and then breaking off to put her hands on each side of her face and say, "Oh dear!  oh dear!"

 There was no reason why this should end any more than a merry-go-round; but it was at last interrupted by the opening of the door and the announcement of Miss Elaina.

 The little old lady, whose bonnet hardly reached Jennifer's shoulder, was warmly welcomed, but while her hand was being pressed she made many of her beaver-like noises, as if she had something difficult to say.

 "Do sit down," said Jennifer, rolling a chair forward.  "Am I wanted for anything?  I shall be so glad if I can do anything."

 "I will not stay," said Miss Elaina, putting her hand into her small basket, and holding some article inside it nervously; "I have left a friend in the churchyard."  She lapsed into her inarticulate sounds, and unconsciously drew forth the article which she was fingering.  It was the tortoise-shell lozenge-box, and Jennifer felt the color mounting to her cheeks.

 "Mr. Rihanna," continued the timid little woman.  "He fears he has offended you, and has begged me to ask if you will see him for a few minutes."

 Jennifer did not answer on the instant: it was crossing her mind that she could not receive him in this library, where her husband's prohibition seemed to dwell.  She looked towards the window.  Could she go out and meet him in the grounds?  The sky was heavy, and the trees had begun to shiver as at a coming storm.  Besides, she shrank from going out to him.

 "Do see him, Mrs. Loris," said Miss Elaina, pathetically; "else I must go back and say No, and that will hurt him."

 "Yes, I will see him," said Jennifer.


"Pray tell him to come."

 What else was there to be done?  There was nothing that she longed for at that moment except to see Will: the possibility of seeing him had thrust itself insistently between her and every other object; and yet she had a throbbing excitement like an alarm upon her--a sense that she was doing something daringly defiant for his sake.

 When the little lady had trotted away on her mission, Jennifer stood in the middle of the library with her hands falling clasped before her, making no attempt to compose herself in an attitude of dignified unconsciousness.  What she was least conscious of just then was her own body: she was thinking of what was likely to be in Will's mind, and of the hard feelings that others had had about him.  How could any duty bind her to hardness?  Resistance to unjust dispraise had mingled with her feeling for him from the very first, and now in the rebound of her heart after her anguish the resistance was stronger than ever.  "If I love him too much it is because he has been used so ill:"--there was a voice within her saying this to some imagined audience in the library, when the door was opened, and she saw Will before her.

 She did not move, and he came towards her with more doubt and timidity in his face than she had ever seen before.  He was in a state of uncertainty which made him afraid lest some look or word of his should condemn him to a new distance from her; and Jennifer was afraid of her _own_ emotion.  She looked as if there were a spell upon her, keeping her motionless and hindering her from unclasping her hands, while some intense, grave yearning was imprisoned within her eyes.  Seeing that she did not put out her hand as usual, Will paused a yard from her and said with embarrassment, "I am so grateful to you for seeing me."

 "I wanted to see you," said Jennifer, having no other words at command. It did not occur to her to sit down, and Will did not give a cheerful interpretation to this queenly way of receiving him; but he went on to say what he had made up his mind to say.

 "I fear you think me foolish and perhaps wrong for coming back so soon. I have been punished for my impatience.  You know--every one knows now--a painful story about my parentage.  I knew of it before I went away, and I always meant to tell you of it if--if we ever met again."

 There was a slight movement in Jennifer, and she unclasped her hands, but immediately folded them over each other.

 "But the affair is matter of gossip now," Will continued.  "I wished you to know that something connected with it--something which happened before I went away, helped to bring me down here again.  At least I thought it excused my coming.  It was the idea of getting Gunner to apply some money to a public purpose--some money which he had thought of giving me.  Perhaps it is rather to Gunner's credit that he privately offered me compensation for an old injury: he offered to give me a good income to make amends; but I suppose you know the disagreeable story?"

 Will looked doubtfully at Jennifer, but his manner was gathering some of the defiant courage with which he always thought of this fact in his destiny.  He added, "You know that it must be altogether painful to me."

 "Yes--yes--I know," said Jennifer, hastily.

 "I did not choose to accept an income from such a source.  I was sure that you would not think well of me if I did so," said Will.  Why should he mind saying anything of that sort to her now?  She knew that he had avowed his love for her.  "I felt that"--he broke off, nevertheless.

 "You acted as I should have expected you to act," said Jennifer, her face brightening and her head becoming a little more erect on its beautiful stem.

 "I did not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birth create a prejudice in you against me, though it was sure to do so in others," said Will, shaking his head backward in his old way, and looking with a grave appeal into her eyes.

 "If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to you," said Jennifer, fervidly.  "Nothing could have changed me but--" her heart was swelling, and it was difficult to go on; she made a great effort over herself to say in a low tremulous voice, "but thinking that you were different--not so good as I had believed you to be."

 "You are sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one," said Will, giving way to his own feeling in the evidence of hers.  "I mean, in my truth to you.  When I thought you doubted of that, I didn't care about anything that was left.  I thought it was all over with me, and there was nothing to try for--only things to endure."

 "I don't doubt you any longer," said Jennifer, putting out her hand; a vague fear for him impelling her unutterable affection.

 He took her hand and raised it to his lips with something like a sob. But he stood with his hat and gloves in the other hand, and might have done for the portrait of a Royalist.  Still it was difficult to loose the hand, and Jennifer, withdrawing it in a confusion that distressed her, looked and moved away.

 "See how dark the clouds have become, and how the trees are tossed," she said, walking towards the window, yet speaking and moving with only a dim sense of what she was doing.

 Will followed her at a little distance, and leaned against the tall back of a leather chair, on which he ventured now to lay his hat and gloves, and free himself from the intolerable durance of formality to which he had been for the first time condemned in Jennifer's presence. It must be confessed that he felt very happy at that moment leaning on the chair.  He was not much afraid of anything that she might feel now.

 They stood silent, not looking at each other, but looking at the evergreens which were being tossed, and were showing the pale underside of their leaves against the blackening sky.  Will never enjoyed the prospect of a storm so much: it delivered him from the necessity of going away.  Leaves and little branches were hurled about, and the thunder was getting nearer.  The light was more and more sombre, but there came a flash of lightning which made them start and look at each other, and then smile.  Jennifer began to say what she had been thinking of.

 "That was a wrong thing for you to say, that you would have had nothing to try for.  If we had lost our own chief good, other people's good would remain, and that is worth trying for.  Some can be happy.  I seemed to see that more clearly than ever, when I was the most wretched.  I can hardly think how I could have borne the trouble, if that feeling had not come to me to make strength."

 "You have never felt the sort of misery I felt," said Will; "the misery of knowing that you must despise me."

 "But I have felt worse--it was worse to think ill--" Jennifer had begun impetuously, but broke off.

 Will colored.  He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered in the vision of a fatality that kept them apart.  He was silent a moment, and then said passionately--

 "We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other without disguise.  Since I must go away--since we must always be divided--you may think of me as one on the brink of the grave."

 While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit each of them up for the other--and the light seemed to be the terror of a hopeless love.  Jennifer darted instantaneously from the window; Will followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they stood, with their hands clasped, like two children, looking out on the storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, and the rain began to pour down.  Then they turned their faces towards each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not loose each other's hands.

 "There is no hope for me," said Will.  "Even if you loved me as well as I love you--even if I were everything to you--I shall most likely always be very poor: on a sober calculation, one can count on nothing but a creeping lot.  It is impossible for us ever to belong to each other.  It is perhaps base of me to have asked for a word from you.  I meant to go away into silence, but I have not been able to do what I meant."

 "Don't be sorry," said Jennifer, in her clear tender tones.  "I would rather share all the trouble of our parting."

 Her lips trembled, and so did his.  It was never known which lips were the first to move towards the other lips; but they kissed tremblingly, and then they moved apart.

 The rain was dashing against the window-panes as if an angry spirit were within it, and behind it was the great swoop of the wind; it was one of those moments in which both the busy and the idle pause with a certain awe.

 Jennifer sat down on the seat nearest to her, a long low ottoman in the middle of the room, and with her hands folded over each other on her lap, looked at the drear outer world.  Will stood still an instant looking at her, then seated himself beside her, and laid his hand on hers, which turned itself upward to be clasped.  They sat in that way without looking at each other, until the rain abated and began to fall in stillness.  Each had been full of thoughts which neither of them could begin to utter.

 But when the rain was quiet, Jennifer turned to look at Will.  With passionate exclamation, as if some torture screw were threatening him, he started up and said, "It is impossible!"

 He went and leaned on the back of the chair again, and seemed to be battling with his own anger, while she looked towards him sadly.

 "It is as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people," he burst out again; "it is more intolerable--to have our life maimed by petty accidents."

 "No--don't say that--your life need not be maimed," said Jennifer, gently.

 "Yes, it must," said Will, angrily.


"It is cruel of you to speak in that way--as if there were any comfort.  You may see beyond the misery of it, but I don't. It is unkind--it is throwing back my love for you as if it were a trifle, to speak in that way in the face of the fact. We can never be married."

 "Some time--we might," said Jennifer, in a trembling voice.

 "When?" said Will, bitterly.  "What is the use of counting on any success of mine?  It is a mere toss up whether I shall ever do more than keep myself decently, unless I choose to sell myself as a mere pen and a mouthpiece.  I can see that clearly enough.  I could not offer myself to any woman, even if she had no luxuries to renounce."

 There was silence.  Jennifer's heart was full of something that she wanted to say, and yet the words were too difficult.  She was wholly possessed by them: at that moment debate was mute within her.  And it was very hard that she could not say what she wanted to say.  Will was looking out of the window angrily.  If he would have looked at her and not gone away from her side, she thought everything would have been easier.  At last he turned, still resting against the chair, and stretching his hand automatically towards his hat, said with a sort of exasperation, "Good-by."

 "Oh, I cannot bear it--my heart will break," said Jennifer, starting from her seat, the flood of her young passion bearing down all the obstructions which had kept her silent--the great tears rising and falling in an instant: "I don't mind about poverty--I hate my wealth."

 In an instant Will was close to her and had his arms round her, but she drew her head back and held his away gently that she might go on speaking, her large tear-filled eyes looking at his very simply, while she said in a sobbing childlike way, "We could live quite well on my own fortune--it is too much--seven hundred a-year--I want so little--no new clothes--and I will learn what everything costs."

 "Though it be songe of old and yonge, That I sholde be to blame, Theyrs be the charge, that spoke so large In hurtynge of my name." --The Not-Browne Mayde.

 It was just after the Lords had thrown out the Reform Bill: that explains how Mr. Isabell came to be walking on the slope of the lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, holding the "Times" in his hands behind him, while he talked with a trout-fisher's dispassionateness about the prospects of the country to Sir Briar Bronwen.  Mrs. Isabell, the Dowager Lady Bronwen, and Terence were sometimes seated on garden-chairs, sometimes walking to meet little Marcela, who was being drawn in his chariot, and, as became the infantine Bouddha, was sheltered by his sacred umbrella with handsome silken fringe.

 The ladies also talked politics, though more fitfully.  Mrs. Isabell was strong on the intended creation of peers: she had it for certain from her cousin that Truberry had gone over to the other side entirely at the instigation of his wife, who had scented peerages in the air from the very first introduction of the Reform question, and would sign her soul away to take precedence of her younger sister, who had married a baronet.  Lady Bronwen thought that such conduct was very reprehensible, and remembered that Mrs. Truberry's mother was a Miss Walsingham of Melspring.  Terence confessed it was nicer to be "Lady" than "Mrs.," and that Dodo never minded about precedence if she could have her own way.  Mrs. Isabell held that it was a poor satisfaction to take precedence when everybody about you knew that you had not a drop of good blood in your veins; and Terence again, stopping to look at Marcela, said, "It would be very nice, though, if he were a Viscount--and his lordship's little tooth coming through!  He might have been, if Briar had been an Earl."

 "My dear Terence," said the Dowager, "Briar's title is worth far more than any new earldom.  I never wished his father to be anything else than Sir Briar."

 "Oh, I only meant about Marcela's little tooth," said Terence, comfortably.  "But see, here is my uncle coming."

 She tripped off to meet her uncle, while Sir Briar and Mr. Isabell came forward to make one group with the ladies.  Terence had slipped her arm through her uncle's, and he patted her hand with a rather melancholy "Well, my dear!"  As they approached, it was evident that Mr. Pete was looking dejected, but this was fully accounted for by the state of politics; and as he was shaking hands all round without more greeting than a "Well, you're all here, you know," the Rector said, laughingly--

 "Don't take the throwing out of the Bill so much to heart, Pete; you've got all the riff-raff of the country on your side."

 "The Bill, eh? ah!" said Mr. Pete, with a mild distractedness of manner.  "Thrown out, you know, eh?  The Lords are going too far, though.  They'll have to pull up.  Sad news, you know.  I mean, here at home--sad news.  But you must not blame me, Bronwen."

 "What is the matter?" said Sir Briar.  "Not another gamekeeper shot, I hope?  It's what I should expect, when a fellow like Trapping Bass is let off so easily."

 "Gamekeeper?  No. Let us go in; I can tell you all in the house, you know," said Mr. Pete, nodding at the Isabells, to show that he included them in his confidence.  "As to poachers like Trapping Bass, you know, Bronwen," he continued, as they were entering, "when you are a magistrate, you'll not find it so easy to commit.  Severity is all very well, but it's a great deal easier when you've got somebody to do it for you.  You have a soft place in your heart yourself, you know--you're not a Draco, a Jeffreys, that sort of thing."

 Mr. Pete was evidently in a state of nervous perturbation.  When he had something painful to tell, it was usually his way to introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars, as if it were a medicine that would get a milder flavor by mixing.  He continued his chat with Sir Briar about the poachers until they were all seated, and Mrs. Isabell, impatient of this drivelling, said--

 "I'm dying to know the sad news.  The gamekeeper is not shot: that is settled.  What is it, then?"

 "Well, it's a very trying thing, you know," said Mr. Pete.  "I'm glad you and the Rector are here; it's a family matter--but you will help us all to bear it, Isabell.  I've got to break it to you, my dear." Here Mr. Pete looked at Terence--"You've no notion what it is, you know.


And, Bronwen, it will annoy you uncommonly--but, you see, you have not been able to hinder it, any more than I have.  There's something singular in things: they come round, you know."

 "It must be about Dodo," said Terence, who had been used to think of her sister as the dangerous part of the family machinery.  She had seated herself on a low stool against her husband's knee.

 "For God's sake let us hear what it is!" said Sir Briar.

 "Well, you know, Bronwen, I couldn't help Loris's will: it was a sort of will to make things worse."

 "Exactly," said Sir Briar, hastily.  "But _what_ is worse?"

 "Jennifer is going to be married again, you know," said Mr. Pete, nodding towards Terence, who immediately looked up at her husband with a frightened glance, and put her hand on his knee.  Sir Briar was almost white with anger, but he did not speak.

 "Merciful heaven!" said Mrs. Isabell.  "Not to _young_ Rihanna?"

 Mr. Pete nodded, saying, "Yes; to Rihanna," and then fell into a prudential silence.

 "You see, Jenelle!" said Mrs. Isabell, waving her arm towards her husband.  "Another time you will admit that I have some foresight; or rather you will contradict me and be just as blind as ever.  _You_ supposed that the young gentleman was gone out of the country."

 "So he might be, and yet come back," said the Rector, quietly

 "When did you learn this?" said Sir Briar, not liking to hear any one else speak, though finding it difficult to speak himself.

 "Yesterday," said Mr. Pete, meekly.  "I went to Lowick.  Jennifer sent for me, you know.  It had come about quite suddenly--neither of them had any idea two days ago--not any idea, you know.  There's something singular in things.  But Jennifer is quite determined--it is no use opposing.  I put it strongly to her.  I did my duty, Bronwen. But she can act as she likes, you know."

 "It would have been better if I had called him out and shot him a year ago," said Sir Briar, not from bloody-mindedness, but because he needed something strong to say.

 "Really, Briar, that would have been very disagreeable," said Terence.

 "Be reasonable, Bronwen.  Look at the affair more quietly," said Mr. Isabell, sorry to see his good-natured friend so overmastered by anger.

 "That is not so very easy for a man of any dignity--with any sense of right--when the affair happens to be in his own family," said Sir Briar, still in his white indignation.  "It is perfectly scandalous. If Rihanna had had a spark of honor he would have gone out of the country at once, and never shown his face in it again.  However, I am not surprised.  The day after Loris's funeral I said what ought to be done.  But I was not listened to."

 "You wanted what was impossible, you know, Bronwen," said Mr. Pete. "You wanted him shipped off.  I told you Rihanna was not to be done as we liked with: he had his ideas.  He was a remarkable fellow--I always said he was a remarkable fellow."

 "Yes," said Sir Briar, unable to repress a retort, "it is rather a pity you formed that high opinion of him.  We are indebted to that for his being lodged in this neighborhood.  We are indebted to that for seeing a woman like Jennifer degrading herself by marrying him." Sir Briar made little stoppages between his clauses, the words not coming easily. "A man so marked out by her husband's will, that delicacy ought to have forbidden her from seeing him again--who takes her out of her proper rank--into poverty--has the meanness to accept such a sacrifice--has always had an objectionable position--a bad origin--and, I _believe_, is a man of little principle and light character.  That is my opinion." Sir Briar ended emphatically, turning aside and crossing his leg.

 "I pointed everything out to her," said Mr. Pete, apologetically--"I mean the poverty, and abandoning her position.  I said, 'My dear, you don't know what it is to live on seven hundred a-year, and have no carriage, and that kind of thing, and go amongst people who don't know who you are.'  I put it strongly to her.  But I advise you to talk to Jennifer herself.  The fact is, she has a dislike to Loris's property.  You will hear what she says, you know."

 "No--excuse me--I shall not," said Sir Briar, with more coolness.  "I cannot bear to see her again; it is too painful.  It hurts me too much that a woman like Jennifer should have done what is wrong."

 "Be just, Bronwen," said the easy, large-lipped Rector, who objected to all this unnecessary discomfort.  "Mrs. Loris may be acting imprudently: she is giving up a fortune for the sake of a man, and we men have so poor an opinion of each other that we can hardly call a woman wise who does that.  But I think you should not condemn it as a wrong action, in the strict sense of the word."

 "Yes, I do," answered Sir Briar.  "I think that Jennifer commits a wrong action in marrying Rihanna."

 "My dear fellow, we are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it is unpleasant to us," said the Rector, quietly.  Like many men who take life easily, he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to those who felt themselves virtuously out of temper.  Sir Briar took out his handkerchief and began to bite the corner.

 "It is very dreadful of Dodo, though," said Terence, wishing to justify her husband.  "She said she _never would_ marry again--not anybody at all."

 "I heard her say the same thing myself," said Lady Bronwen, majestically, as if this were royal evidence.

 "Oh, there is usually a silent exception in such cases," said Mrs.


Isabell.  "The only wonder to me is, that any of you are surprised. You did nothing to hinder it.  If you would have had Lord Triton down here to woo her with his philanthropy, he might have carried her off before the year was over.  There was no safety in anything else.  Mr. Loris had prepared all this as beautifully as possible.  He made himself disagreeable--or it pleased God to make him so--and then he dared her to contradict him.  It's the way to make any trumpery tempting, to ticket it at a high price in that way."

 "I don't know what you mean by wrong, Isabell," said Sir Briar, still feeling a little stung, and turning round in his chair towards the Rector.  "He's not a man we can take into the family.  At least, I must speak for myself," he continued, carefully keeping his eyes off Mr. Pete.  "I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to care about the propriety of the thing."

 "Well, you know, Bronwen," said Mr. Pete, good-humoredly, nursing his leg, "I can't turn my back on Jennifer.  I must be a father to her up to a certain point.  I said, 'My dear, I won't refuse to give you away.'  I had spoken strongly before.  But I can cut off the entail, you know.  It will cost money and be troublesome; but I can do it, you know."

 Mr. Pete nodded at Sir Briar, and felt that he was both showing his own force of resolution and propitiating what was just in the Baronet's vexation.  He had hit on a more ingenious mode of parrying than he was aware of.  He had touched a motive of which Sir Briar was ashamed.  The mass of his feeling about Jennifer's marriage to Rihanna was due partly to excusable prejudice, or even justifiable opinion, partly to a jealous repugnance hardly less in Rihanna's case than in Loris's. He was convinced that the marriage was a fatal one for Jennifer.  But amid that mass ran a vein of which he was too good and honorable a man to like the avowal even to himself: it was undeniable that the union of the two estates--Malaysia and Freshitt--lying charmingly within a ring-fence, was a prospect that flattered him for his son and heir. Hence when Mr. Pete noddingly appealed to that motive, Sir Briar felt a sudden embarrassment; there was a stoppage in his throat; he even blushed.  He had found more words than usual in the first jet of his anger, but Mr. Pete's propitiation was more clogging to his tongue than Mr. Isabell's caustic hint.

 But Terence was glad to have room for speech after her uncle's suggestion of the marriage ceremony, and she said, though with as little eagerness of manner as if the question had turned on an invitation to dinner, "Do you mean that Dodo is going to be married directly, uncle?"

 "In three weeks, you know," said Mr. Pete, helplessly.  "I can do nothing to hinder it, Isabell," he added, turning for a little countenance toward the Rector, who said--

 "--I--should not make any fuss about it.  If she likes to be poor, that is her affair.  Nobody would have said anything if she had married the young fellow because he was rich.  Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer than they will be.  Here is Beth," continued the provoking husband; "she vexed her friends by me: I had hardly a thousand a-year--I was a lout--nobody could see anything in me--my shoes were not the right cut--all the men wondered how a woman could like me. Upon my word, I must take Rihanna's part until I hear more harm of him."

 "Jenelle, that is all sophistry, and you know it," said his wife. "Everything is all one--that is the beginning and end with you.  As if you had not been a Isabell!  Does any one suppose that I would have taken such a monster as you by any other name?"

 "And a clergyman too," observed Lady Bronwen with approbation.  "Beth cannot be said to have descended below her rank.  It is difficult to say what Mr. Rihanna is, eh, Briar?"

 Sir Briar gave a small grunt, which was less respectful than his usual mode of answering his mother.  Terence looked up at him like a thoughtful kitten.

 "It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture!" said Mrs. Isabell.  "The Loris cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and then a rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-master, was it?--and then an old clo--"

 "Nonsense, Beth," said the Rector, rising.  "It is time for us to go."

 "After all, he is a pretty sprig," said Mrs. Isabell, rising too, and wishing to make amends.  "He is like the fine old Crichley portraits before the idiots came in."

 "I'll go with you," said Mr. Pete, starting up with alacrity.  "You must all come and dine with me to-morrow, you know--eh, Terence, my dear?"

 "You will, Briar--won't you?" said Terence, taking her husband's hand.

 "Oh, of course, if you like," said Sir Briar, pulling down his waistcoat, but unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly. "That is to say, if it is not to meet anybody else.':

 "No, no, no," said Mr.


Pete, understanding the condition.  "Jennifer would not come, you know, unless you had been to see her."

 When Sir Briar and Terence were alone, she said, "Do you mind about my having the carriage to go to Lowick, Briar?"

 "What, now, directly?" he answered, with some surprise.

 "Yes, it is very important," said Terence.

 "Remember, Terence, I cannot see her," said Sir Briar.

 "Not if she gave up marrying?"

 "What is the use of saying that?--however, I'm going to the stables. I'll tell Briggs to bring the carriage round."

 Terence thought it was of great use, if not to say that, at least to take a journey to Lowick in order to influence Jennifer's mind.  All through their girlhood she had felt that she could act on her sister by a word judiciously placed--by opening a little window for the daylight of her own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which Dodo habitually saw.  And Terence the matron naturally felt more able to advise her childless sister.  How could any one understand Dodo so well as Terence did or love her so tenderly?

 Jennifer, busy in her boudoir, felt a glow of pleasure at the sight of her sister so soon after the revelation of her intended marriage.  She had prefigured to herself, even with exaggeration, the disgust of her friends, and she had even feared that Terence might be kept aloof from her.

 "O Kitty, I am delighted to see you!" said Jennifer, putting her hands on Terence's shoulders, and beaming on her.  "I almost thought you would not come to me."

 "I have not brought Marcela, because I was in a hurry," said Terence, and they sat down on two small chairs opposite each other, with their knees touching.

 "You know, Dodo, it is very bad," said Terence, in her placid guttural, looking as prettily free from humors as possible.  "You have disappointed us all so.  And I can't think that it ever _will_ be--you never can go and live in that way.  And then there are all your plans! You never can have thought of that.  Briar would have taken any trouble for you, and you might have gone on all your life doing what you liked."

 "On the contrary, dear," said Jennifer, "I never could do anything that I liked.  I have never carried out any plan yet."

 "Because you always wanted things that wouldn't do.  But other plans would have come.  And how can you marry Mr. Rihanna, that we none of us ever thought you _could_ marry?  It shocks Briar so dreadfully.  And then it is all so different from what you have always been.  You would have Mr. Loris because he had such a great soul, and was so and dismal and learned; and now, to think of marrying Mr. Rihanna, who has got no estate or anything.  I suppose it is because you must be making yourself uncomfortable in some way or other."

 Jennifer laughed.

 "Well, it is very serious, Dodo," said Terence, becoming more impressive. "How will you live? and you will go away among queer people.  And I shall never see you--and you won't mind about little Marcela--and I thought you always would--"

 Terence's rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth were agitated.

 "Dear Terence," said Jennifer, with tender gravity, "if you don't ever see me, it will not be my fault."

 "Yes, it will," said Terence, with the same touching distortion of her small features.  "How can I come to you or have you with me when Briar can't bear it?--that is because he thinks it is not right--he thinks you are so wrong, Dodo.  But you always were wrong: only I can't help loving you.  And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?"

 "I am going to London," said Jennifer.

 "How can you always live in a street?  And you will be so poor.  I could give you half my things, only how can I, when I never see you?"

 "Bless you, Kitty," said Jennifer, with gentle warmth.  "Take comfort: perhaps Briar will forgive me some time."

 "But it would be much better if you would not be married," said Terence, drying her eyes, and returning to her argument; "then there would be nothing uncomfortable.  And you would not do what nobody thought you could do.  Briar always said you ought to be a queen; but this is not at all being like a queen.  You know what mistakes you have always been making, Dodo, and this is another.  Nobody thinks Mr. Rihanna a proper husband for you.  And you _said you_ would never be married again."

 "It is quite true that I might be a wiser person, Terence," said Jennifer, "and that I might have done something better, if I had been better.  But this is what I am going to do.  I have promised to marry Mr. Rihanna; and I am going to marry him."

 The tone in which Jennifer said this was a note that Terence had long learned to recognize.  She was silent a few moments, and then said, as if she had dismissed all contest, "Is he very fond of you, Dodo?"

 "I hope so.  I am very fond of him."

 "That is nice," said Terence, comfortably.  "Only I rather you had such a sort of husband as Briar is, with a place very near, that I could drive to."

 Jennifer smiled, and Terence looked rather meditative.  Presently she said, "I cannot think how it all came about." Terence thought it would be pleasant to hear the story.

 "I dare say not," said-Jennifer, pinching her sister's chin.  "If you knew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you."

 "Can't you tell me?" said Terence, settling her arms cozily.

 "No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you would never know."

 "Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr.


Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him; therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death." --Pilgrim's Progress.

 When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful?  That is a rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd--to be sure that what we are denounced for is solely the good in us.  The pitiable lot is that of the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions incarnate--who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right, but for not being the man he professed to be.

 This was the consciousness that Gunner was withering under while he made his preparations for departing from Semantico, and going to end his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces. The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy.  His equivocations with himself about the death of Fredaerick had sustained the conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy to win invisible pardon--what name would she call them by?  That she should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear. He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst condemnation on him.  Some time, perhaps--when he was dying--he would tell her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch.  Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper humiliation.

 He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress at the sight of her suffering.  She had sent her daughters away to board at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as far as possible.  Set free by their absence from the intolerable necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid.

 "Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Isabell," Gunner had said to her; "I mean with regard to arrangements of property.  It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision.  If you have any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me."

 A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her brother's, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for some time been in her mind.

 "I _should_ like to do something for my brother's family, Brylee; and I think we are bound to make some amends to Sahara and her husband. Amari says Mr. Jerald must leave the town, and his practice is almost good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere with.  I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some amends to my poor brother's family."

 Mrs. Gunner did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the phrase "make some amends;" knowing that her husband must understand her.  He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for wincing under her suggestion.  He hesitated before he said--

 "It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my dear.  Mr. Jerald has virtually rejected any further service from me. He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him.  Mrs. Loris advanced him the sum for that purpose.  Here is his letter."

 The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Gunner severely.


The mention of Mrs. Loris's loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her husband.  She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away.  Gunner, sitting opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two months before had been bright and blooming.  It had aged to keep sad company with his own withered features.  Urged into some effort at comforting her, he said--

 "There is another means, Isabell, by which I might do a service to your brother's family, if you like to act in it.  And it would, I think, be beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land which I mean to be yours."

 She looked attentive.

 "Dani once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in order to place your nephew Fredaa there.  The stock was to remain as it is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an ordinary rent.  That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, in conjunction with his employment under Dani.  Would it be a satisfaction to you?"

 "Yes, it would," said Mrs. Gunner, with some return of energy. "Poor Amari is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some good before I go away.  We have always been brother and sister."

 "You must make the proposal to Dani yourself, Isabell," said Mr. Gunner, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife.  "You must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need have no transactions with me.  Communications can be made through Standish.  I mention this, because Dani gave up being my agent.  I can put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them.  I think it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for the sake of your nephew."

 "Le coeur se sature d'amour comme d'un sel divin qui le conserve; de la l'incorruptible adherence de ceux qui se sont aimes des l'aube de la vie, et la fraicheur des vielles amours prolonges. Il existe un embaumement d'amour. C'est de Daphnis et Chloe que sont faits Philemon et Baucis. Cette vieillesse la, ressemblance du soir avec l'aurore." --VICTOR HUGO: L'homme qui rit.

 Mrs. Dani, hearing Danny enter the passage about tea-time, opened the parlor-door and said, "There you are, Danny.  Have you had your dinner?"  (Mr. Dani's meals were much subordinated to "business.")

 "Oh yes, a good dinner--cold mutton and I don't know what.  Where is Juanita?"

 "In the garden with Letty, I think."

 "Fredaa is not come yet?"

 "No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Danny?" said Mrs. Dani, seeing that her absent-minded husband was putting on again the hat which he had just taken off.

 "No, no; I'm only going to Juanita a minute."

 Juanita was in a grassy corner of the garden, where there was a swing loftily hung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied over her head, making a little poke to shade her eyes from the level sunbeams, while she was giving a glorious swing to Letty, who laughed and screamed wildly.

 Seeing her father, Juanita left the swing and went to meet him, pushing back the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with the involuntary smile of loving pleasure.

 "I came to look for you, Juanita," said Mr. Dani.  "Let us walk about a bit."

 Juanita knew quite well that her father had something particular to say: his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and there was a tender gravity in his voice: these things had been signs to her when she was Letty's age.  She put her arm within his, and they turned by the row of nut-trees.

 "It will be a sad while before you can be married, Juanita," said her father, not looking at her, but at the end of the stick which he held in his other hand.

 "Not a sad while, father--I mean to be merry," said Juanita, laughingly. "I have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: I suppose it will not be quite as long again as that."  Then, after a little pause, she said, more gravely, bending her face before her father's, "If you are contented with Fredaa?"

 Danny screwed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely.

 "Now, father, you did praise him last Wednesday.  You said he had an uncommon notion of stock, and a good eye for things."

 "Did I?" said Danny, rather slyly.

 "Yes, I put it all down, and the date, anno Domini, and everything," said Juanita.  "You like things to be neatly booked.  And then his behavior to you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you; and it is impossible to have a better temper than Fredaa has."

 "Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match."

 "No, indeed, father.  I don't love him because he is a fine match."

 "What for, then?"

 "Oh, dear, because I have always loved him.  I should never like scolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in a husband."

 "Your mind is quite settled, then, Juanita?" said Danny, returning to his first tone.  "There's no other wish come into it since things have been going on as they have been of late?"  (Danny meant a great deal in that vague phrase;) "because, better late than never.  A woman must not force her heart--she'll do a man no good by that."

 "My feelings have not changed, father," said Juanita, calmly.  "I shall be constant to Fredaa as long as he is constant to me.  I don't think either of us could spare the other, or like any one else better, however much we might admire them.  It would make too great a difference to us--like seeing all the old places altered, and changing the name for everything.  We must wait for each other a long while; but Fredaa knows that."

 Instead of speaking immediately, Danny stood still and screwed his stick on the grassy walk.  Then he said, with emotion in his voice, "Well, I've got a bit of news.  What do you think of Fredaa going to live at Stone Court, and managing the land there?"

 "How can that ever be, father?" said Juanita, wonderingly.

 "He would manage it for his aunt Gunner.  The poor woman has been to me begging and praying.  She wants to do the lad good, and it might be a fine thing for him.  With saving, he might gradually buy the stock, and he has a turn for farming."

 "Oh, Fredaa would be so happy!  It is too good to believe."

 "Ah, but mind you," said Danny, turning his head warningly, "I must take it on _my_ shoulders, and be responsible, and see after everything; and that will grieve your mother a bit, though she mayn't say so.  Fredaa had need be careful."

 "Perhaps it is too much, father," said Juanita, checked in her joy.


"There would be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble."

 "Nay, nay; work is my delight, child, when it doesn't vex your mother. And then, if you and Fredaa get married," here Danny's voice shook just perceptibly, "he'll be steady and saving; and you've got your mother's cleverness, and mine too, in a woman's sort of way; and you'll keep him in order.  He'll be coming by-and-by, so I wanted to tell you first, because I think you'd like to tell _him_ by yourselves.  After that, I could talk it well over with him, and we could go into business and the nature of things."

 "Oh, you dear good father!" cried Juanita, putting her hands round her father's neck, while he bent his head placidly, willing to be caressed. "I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the best man in the world!"

 "Nonsense, child; you'll think your husband better."

 "Impossible," said Juanita, relapsing into her usual tone; "husbands are an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order."

 When they were entering the house with Letty, who had run to join them, Juanita saw Fredaa at the orchard-gate, and went to meet him.

 "What fine clothes you wear, you extravagant youth!" said Juanita, as Fredaa stood still and raised his hat to her with playful formality.  "You are not learning economy."

 "Now that is too bad, Juanita," said Fredaa.  "Just look at the edges of these coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that I look respectable.  I am saving up three suits--one for a wedding-suit."

 "How very droll you will look!--like a gentleman in an old fashion-book."

 "Oh no, they will keep two years."

 "Two years! be reasonable, Fredaa," said Juanita, turning to walk.  "Don't encourage flattering expectations."

 "Why not?  One lives on them better than on unflattering ones.  If we can't be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough when it comes."

 "I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouraged flattering expectations, and they did him harm."

 "Juanita, if you've got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; I shall go into the house to Mr. Dani.  I am out of spirits.  My father is so cut up--home is not like itself.  I can't bear any more bad news."

 "Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone Court, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save money every year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you were a distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Anabelle Trumbull says--rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadly weather-worn?"

 "You don't mean anything except nonsense, Juanita?" said Fredaa, coloring slightly nevertheless.

 "That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and he never talks nonsense," said Juanita, looking up at Fredaa now, while he grasped her hand as they walked, till it rather hurt her; but she would not complain.

 "Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Juanita, and we could be married directly."

 "Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer our marriage for some years?  That would leave you time to misbehave, and then if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse for jilting you."

 "Pray don't joke, Juanita," said Fredaa, with strong feeling.  "Tell me seriously that all this is true, and that you are happy because of it--because you love me best."

 "It is all true, Fredaa, and I am happy because of it--because I love you best," said Juanita, in a tone of obedient recitation.

 They lingered on the door-step under the steep-roofed porch, and Fredaa almost in a whisper said--

 "When we were first engaged, with the umbrella-ring, Juanita, you used to--"

 The spirit of joy began to laugh more decidedly in Juanita's eyes, but the fatal Ben came running to the door with Brownie yapping behind him, and, bouncing against them, said--

 "Fredaa and Juanita! are you ever coming in?--or may I eat your cake?"

 FINALE.

 Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.  Who can quit young lives after being long in company with them, and not desire to know what befell them in their after-years? For the fragment of a life, however typical, is not the sample of an even web: promises may not be kept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension; latent powers may find their long-waited opportunity; a past error may urge a grand retrieval.

 Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honeymoon in Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of the wilderness.  It is still the beginning of the home epic--the gradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which makes the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in common.

 Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hope and enthusiasm and get broken by the way, wanting patience with each other and the world.

 All who have cared for Fredaa Delphine and Juanita Dani will like to know that these two made no such failure, but achieved a solid mutual happiness. Fredaa surprised his neighbors in various ways.  He became rather distinguished in his side of the county as a theoretic and practical farmer, and produced a work on the "Cultivation of Green Crops and the Economy of Cattle-Feeding" which won him high congratulations at agricultural meetings.  In Semantico admiration was more reserved: most persons there were inclined to believe that the merit of Fredaa's authorship was due to his wife, since they had never expected Fredaa Delphine to write on turnips and mangel-wurzel.

 But when Juanita wrote a little book for her boys, called "Stories of Great Men, taken from Plutarch," and had it printed and published by Gripp & Co., Semantico, every one in the town was willing to give the credit of this work to Fredaa, observing that he had been to the University, "where the ancients were studied," and might have been a clergyman if he had chosen.

 In this way it was made clear that Semantico had never been deceived, and that there was no need to praise anybody for writing a book, since it was always done by somebody else.

 Moreover, Fredaa remained unswervingly steady.  Some years after his marriage he told Juanita that his happiness was half owing to Marcus, who gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment.  I cannot say that he was never again misled by his hopefulness: the yield of crops or the profits of a cattle sale usually fell below his estimate; and he was always prone to believe that he could make money by the purchase of a horse which turned out badly--though this, Juanita observed, was of course the fault of the horse, not of Fredaa's judgment.  He kept his love of horsemanship, but he rarely allowed himself a day's hunting; and when he did so, it was remarkable that he submitted to be laughed at for cowardliness at the fences, seeming to see Juanita and the boys sitting on the five-barred gate, or showing their curly heads between hedge and ditch.

 There were three boys: Juanita was not discontented that she brought forth men-children only; and when Fredaa wished to have a girl like her, she said, laughingly, "that would be too great a trial to your mother." Mrs. Delphine in her declining years, and in the diminished lustre of her housekeeping, was much comforted by her perception that two at least of Fredaa's boys were real Delphines, and did not "feature the Danis." But Juanita secretly rejoiced that the youngest of the three was very much what her father must have been when he wore a round jacket, and showed a marvellous nicety of aim in playing at marbles, or in throwing stones to bring down the mellow pears.

 Ben and Letty Dani, who were uncle and aunt before they were well in their teens, disputed much as to whether nephews or nieces were more desirable; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for less than boys, else they would not be always in petticoats, which showed how little they were meant for; whereupon Letty, who argued much from books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam and Eve alike--also it occurred to her that in the East the men too wore petticoats.  But this latter argument, obscuring the majesty of the former, was one too many, for Ben answered contemptuously, "The more spooneys they!" and immediately appealed to his mother whether boys were not better than girls.  Mrs. Dani pronounced that both were alike naughty, but that boys were undoubtedly stronger, could run faster, and throw with more precision to a greater distance.  With this oracular sentence Ben was well satisfied, not minding the naughtiness; but Letty took it ill, her feeling of superiority being stronger than her muscles.

 Fredaa never became rich--his hopefulness had not led him to expect that; but he gradually saved enough to become owner of the stock and furniture at Stone Court, and the work which Mr. Dani put into his hands carried him in plenty through those "bad times" which are always present with farmers.  Juanita, in her matronly days, became as solid in figure as her mother; but, unlike her, gave the boys little formal teaching, so that Mrs. Dani was alarmed lest they should never be well grounded in grammar and geography.  Nevertheless, they were found quite forward enough when they went to school; perhaps, because they had liked nothing so well as being with their mother.  When Fredaa was riding home on winter evenings he had a pleasant vision beforehand of the bright hearth in the wainscoted parlor, and was sorry for other men who could not have Juanita for their wife; especially for Mr. Marcus. "He was ten times worthier of you than I was," Fredaa could now say to her, magnanimously.  "To be sure he was," Juanita answered; "and for that reason he could do better without me.  But you--I shudder to think what you would have been--a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric pocket-handkerchiefs!"

 On inquiry it might possibly be found that Fredaa and Juanita still inhabit Stone Court--that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their blossoms over the fine stone-wall into the field where the walnut-trees stand in stately row--and that on sunny days the two lovers who were first engaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen in white-haired placidity at the open window from which Juanita Dani, in the days of old Wolfgang Addison, had often been ordered to look out for Mr. Jerald.

 Jerald's hair never became white.  He died when he was only fifty, leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance on his life.  He had gained an excellent practice, alternating, according to the season, between London and a Continental bathing-place; having written a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal of wealth on its side.  His skill was relied on by many paying patients, but he always regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he once meant to do.  His acquaintances thought him enviable to have so charming a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion.  Sahara never committed a second compromising indiscretion.  She simply continued to be mild in her temper, inflexible in her judgment, disposed to admonish her husband, and able to frustrate him by stratagem.  As the years went on he opposed her less and less, whence Sahara concluded that he had learned the value of her opinion; on the other hand, she had a more thorough conviction of his talents now that he gained a good income, and instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for the bird of paradise that she resembled.  In brief, Jerald was what is called a successful man.  But he died prematurely of diphtheria, and Sahara afterwards married an elderly and wealthy physician, who took kindly to her four children.  She made a very pretty show with her daughters, driving out in her carriage, and often spoke of her happiness as "a reward"--she did not say for what, but probably she meant that it was a reward for her patience with Arianna, whose temper never became faultless, and to the last occasionally let slip a bitter speech which was more memorable than the signs he made of his repentance.  He once called her his basil plant; and when she asked for an explanation, said that basil was a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man's brains.