for home and every one else.

Yet, strange to say, when Ronald told his pretty, weeping wife all that
happened, he made no mention of Valentine Charteris--he did not even
utter her name.

Ronald's arrangements were soon made. He sent for Stephen Thorne and
his wife, and told them how and when he had married Dora.

"I am sorry for it," said Stephen. "No good will ever come of such an
unequal match. My girl had better have stayed at home, or married the
young farmer who loved her. The distance between you is too great, Mr.
Earle, and I fear me you will find it out."

Ronald laughed at the idea that he should ever tire of Dora. How
little these prosaic, commonplace people knew of love!

The good lodge keeper and his wife parted from Dora with many tears.
She was never to brighten their home again with her sweet face and gay
voice. She was going away to strange lands over the sea. Many dark
forebodings haunted them; but it was too late for advice and
interference now.

The first news that came to the villa on the banks of the Arno was that
Stephen Thorne and his wife had left the lodge and taken a small farm
somewhere in the county of Kent. Lady Earle had found them the means,
and they had left without one word from Lord Earle. He never asked
whither they had gone.

Despite his father's anger and his mother's sorrow, despite his poverty
and loss of position, Ronald for some months was very happy with his
young wife. It was so pleasant to teach Dora, to watch her sweet,
dimpled face and the dark eyes grow large with wonder; to hear her
simple, naive remarks, her original ideas; to see her pretty, artless
ways; above all, it was pleasant to be so dearly loved.

He often thought that there never had been, never could be, a wife so
loving as Dora. He could not teach her much, although he tried hard.
She sang simple little ballads sweetly and clearly; but although master
after master tried his best, she could never be taught to play--not
even as much as the easy accompaniments of her own songs. Ronald hoped
that with time and attention she would be able to sketch, but Dora
never managed it. Obediently enough she took pencil and paper in her
hands and tried, but the strokes would never come straight. Sometimes
the drawing she made would resemble something so comical that both she
and Ronald laughed heartily; while the consciousness of her own
inferiority grieved her, and large, bright tears would frequently