iability to tears and trembling had always been a
provocation. Her want of judgment in openly preferring her own
relations to his uncongenial sister had sown seeds of estrangement and
discord which had given Mrs. Ponsonby some cause for self-reproach, and
she felt great hope that her daughter would prevail where she had
failed. There was little danger that he would not show Mary affection
enough to make her home-duties labours of love; and at her age, and
with her disposition, she could both take care of herself, and be an
unconscious restraint on her father. The trust and hope that she would
be the means of weaning her father from evil, and bringing him home a
changed man, was Mrs. Ponsonby's last bright vision.

As to scruples on Lord Ormersfield becoming Mary's escort on the
voyage, Mrs. Ponsonby perceived his determination to be fixed beyond
remonstrance. Perhaps she could neither regret that her daughter
should have such a protector, nor bear to reject his last kindness; and
she might have lingering hopes of the consequences of his meeting her
husband, at a time when the hearts of both would be softened.

These matters arranged, she closed out the world. Louis saw her but
once again, when other words than their own were spoken, and when the
scene brought back to him a like one which had seemed his own farewell
to this earth. His thread of life was lengthened--here was the moment
to pray that it might be strengthened. Firm purpose was wakening
within him, and the battle-cry rang again in his ears--'Quit yourselves
like men; be strong!'

His eye sought Mary. She looked, indeed, like one who could 'suffer
and be strong.' Her brow was calm, though as if a load sat on her,
borne too patiently to mar her peace. The end shone upon her, though
the path might be hid in gloom: one step at a time was enough, and she
was blest above all in her mother's good hope.

A hush was on them all, as though they were watching while a tired,
overtasked child sank to rest.

There was a space of suffering, when Mary and Miss Mercy did all that
love could do, and kept Mrs. Frost from the sight of what she could
neither cheer nor alleviate, and when all she could do was to talk over
the past with Lord Ormersfield.

Then came a brief interval of relief and consciousness, precious for
ever to Mary's recollection. The last words of aught beneath were--'My
dearest love to your father. Tell him I know now how much he has to
for