e she was with us."

"But she is not to stay away for ever, Conrad. I cannot be separated
from my only daughter for ever. That would be too dreadful."

"'For ever' is a long word," answered the Captain coolly. "She will
come back to us--of course."

"When, dear?"

"When she is older and wiser."

This was cold comfort. Mrs. Winstanley dried her tears, and resumed her
crewel-work. The interesting variety of shades in green which modern
art has discovered were a source of comfort to the mother's troubled
mind. Moved to emulation by the results that had been achieved in
artistic needle-work by the school at South Kensington and the Royal
Tapestry Manufactory at Windsor, Pamela found in her crewel-work an
all-absorbing labour. Matilda of Normandy could hardly have toiled more
industriously at the Bayeux tapestry than did Mrs. Winstanley, in the
effort to immortalise the fleeting glories of woodland blossom or
costly orchid upon kitchen towelling.

It was a dull and lonely life which the mistress of the Abbey House led
in these latter days of glowing summer weather; and perhaps it was only
the distractions of crewels and point-lace which preserved her from
melancholy madness. The Captain had been too long a bachelor to
renounce the agreeable habits of a bachelor's existence. His amusements
were all masculine, and more or less solitary. When there was no
hunting, he gave himself up to fishing, and found his chief delight in
the persecution of innocent salmon. He supplied the Abbey House larder
with fish, sent an occasional basket to a friend, and dispatched the
surplus produce of his rod to a fishmonger in London. He was an
enthusiast at billiards, and would play with innocent Mr. Scobel rather
than not play at all. He read every newspaper and periodical of mark
that was published. He rode a good deal, and drove not a little in a
high-wheeled dog-cart; quite an impossible vehicle for a lady. He
transacted all the business of house, stable, gardens, and home-farm,
and that in the most precise and punctual manner. He wrote a good many
letters, and he smoked six or seven cigars every day. It must be
obvious, therefore, that he had very little time to devote to his
pretty middle-aged wife, whose languid airs and vapourish graces were
likely to pall upon an ardent temper after a year of married life. Yet,
though she found her days lonely, Mrs. Winstanley had no ground for
complaint. What fault could a woman find in a husband