f disappointment, carried
into the detail of life, had gradually confirmed him in all his worst
habits and obliterated the possibility of better. But the sour, superior
nature was, as usual, unequal to the struggle. At last it spent itself
in vain against the massive brutishness of opposition it had itself
developed, and the reaction came, and now daily stunned her into hopeless
apathy and abject indifference. Having lost the power of vexing, and
beyond being really vexed by a being she so utterly despised as her
husband, there was nothing left but pure passivity and inanition, into
which she was rapidly declining.

Mr. Dinks kicked loudly and roared at the door, but Mrs. Dinks did not
heed him. She was sitting in her dingy wrapper, rocking, and pondering
upon the conversation of the morning--mechanically rocking, and thinking
of the Christinas dinner at Uncle Lawrence's.

CHAPTER LXXXII.

THE LOST IS FOUND.

It was a whim of Lawrence's to give dinners; to have them good, and to
ask only the people he wanted, and who he thought would enjoy themselves
together.

"How much," he said, quietly, as he conversed with Mrs. Bennet, while his
guests were assembling, "Edward Wynne looks like your sister Martha!"

It was the first time Mrs. Bennet had heard her sister's name mentioned
by any stranger for years. But Lawrence spoke as calmly and naturally as
if Martha Darro had been the subject of their conversation.

"Poor Martha!" said Mrs. Bennet, sadly; "how mysterious it was!"

Her husband saw her as she spoke, and he was so struck by the
mournfulness of her face that he came quietly over.

"What is it?" he said, gently.

"For my son who was dead is alive again. He was lost and is found," said
Lawrence Newt, solemnly.

Mrs. Bennet looked troubled, startled, almost frightened. The words were
full of significance, the tone was not to be mistaken. She looked at
Lawrence Newt with incredulous eagerness. He shook his head assentingly.

"Alive?" she gasped rather than asked.

"And well," he continued.

Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in a silent prayer. A light so sweet stole
over her matronly face that Lawrence Newt did not fear to say,

"And near you; come with me!"

They left the room together; and Amy Waring, who knew why they went,
followed her aunt and Lawrence from the room.

The three stopped at the door of Lawrence Newt's study.

"Your sister is here," said he; and Amy and he remained outside while