king the worst of
himself; but there was a large 'Private,' scored in almost menacing
letters on the top of the first sheet, and so much blotted in the
folding, that it was plain that he had taken alarm at the unreserve of
his own letter.

'My Dear Ethel,

'I have been to Portland. Really my father ought to make a stir and
get Ward's health attended to; he looks very much altered, but will not
own to anything being amiss. They say he has been depressed ever since
he heard of Minna's death. I should say he ought to be doing
out-of-doors work--perhaps at Gibraltar, but then he would be out of
our reach. I could not get much from him, but that patient, contented
look is almost more than one can bear. It laid hold of me when I saw
him the first time, and has haunted me ever since. Verily I believe it
is what is bringing me home! You need not thank me, for it is sober
calculation that convinces me that no success on earth would compensate
for the perpetual sense that my father was wearing himself out, and you
pining over the sight. Except just at first, I always meant to come
and see how the land lay before pledging myself to anything; and
nothing can be clearer than that, in the state of things my father has
allowed to spring up, he must have help. I am glad you have got me the
old house, for I can be at peace there till I have learnt to stand his
unmethodical ways. Don't let him expect too much of me, as I see he is
going to do. It is not in me to be like Norman or Harry, and he must
not look for it, least of all now. If you did not understand, and know
when to hold your tongue, I do not think I could come home at all; as
it is, you are all the comfort I look for. I cross to Paris to-morrow.
That is a page I am very sorry to close. I had a confidence that I
should have hunted down that fellow, and the sight of Portland and the
accounts from Massissauga alike make one long to have one's hands on
his throat; but that hope is ended now, and to loiter about Paris in
search of him, when it it a plain duty to come away, would be one of
the presumptuous acts that come to no good. Let them discuss what they
will, there's nothing so hard to believe in as Divine Justice! And yet
that uncomplaining face accepts it! You need say nothing about this
letter. I will talk about Leonard with my father when I get home.

'Ever yours,
'Thomas May.'

CHAPTER XXV

But soon as once the genial plain
Has drunk