ess and dignity, so that he must think that his pitying affection
had been bestowed on an ungrateful vixen, and be as much disgusted with
the interview as she was herself. She did not wish him to love her;
but she regretted the form of the antidote, above all, since he was of
the few who appreciated Leonard; and the more she heard of Ella's
narrations of his kindness, the more ashamed she grew. Every letter to
or from Mary renewed the uncomfortable sense, and she would have
dropped the correspondence had it not been her sole medium of
communication with her imprisoned brother, since Henry would not permit
letters to be posted with the Milbank address.

CHAPTER XX

A little hint to solace woe,
A hint, a whisper breathing low,
'I may not speak of what I know.'--TENNYSON

At the pace at which rapid people walk alone, when they wish to devour
both the way and their own sensations, Ethel May was mounting the hill
out of the town in the premature heat assumed by May in compliment to
Whitsun week, when a prolonged shout made her turn. At first she
thought it was her father, but her glass showed her that it was the
brother so like him in figure that the London-made coat, and the hair
partaking of the sand instead of the salt, were often said to be the
chief distinction. Moreover, the dainty steps over the puddles were
little like the strides of the Doctor, and left no doubt that it was
the one wedding guest who had been despaired of.

'O, Tom, I am glad you are come!'

'What a rate you were running away at! I thought you had done with
your hurricane pace.'

'Hurricane because of desperate hurry. I'm afraid I can't turn back
with you.'

'Where is all the world?'

'Blanche is helping Mary arrange the Hoxton--I mean her own
drawing-room. Hector has brought a dog-cart to drive papa about in;
Daisy is gone with Harry and Aubrey to the Grange for some camellias.'

'And Ethel rushing to Cocksmoor!'

'I can't help it, Tom,' she said, humbly; 'I wish I could.'

'What's this immense pannier you are carrying?'

'It is quite light. It is twelve of the hats for the children
tomorrow. Mary was bent on trimming them all as usual, and I was
deluded enough to believe she would, till last evening I found just one
and a half done! I did as many as I could at night, till papa heard me
rustling about and thumped. Those went early this morning; and these
are the rest, which I have just finished.'

'Was ther