en, have it as you will," said the old lady at last. "It
costs me much to give it up; but were I to persist, maybe it should cost
more to you than I have a right to ask at your hands. Let be: I will
tarry."

"Dearest Mother, you have a right to all that our hands can give you,"
answered Edith, tenderly: "but, I pray you, tarry until the morrow, and
then if need be, and your strength sufficient, you can ride to Shoe
Lane."

So Edith went with Mr Marshall alone. Even after all she had heard,
Aubrey's condition was a delightful surprise. Never before had she seen
him in so softened, humbled, grateful a mood as now. They talked the
matter over, and in the end decided that, subject to Lady Louvaine's
approval, Aubrey should go to the bookseller.

When the White Bear was reached on her return, Edith found Lady Oxford
in the parlour. The sternness with which the Countess had treated
Aubrey was quite laid aside. To Lady Louvaine she showed a graceful and
grateful mixture of sympathy and respect, endeavoured to reassure her,
hoped there would be no search nor inquiry, thought it was almost too
late, highly approved of Edith's decision, promised to send over all
Aubrey's possessions to the White Bear, and bade them let her know if
she could do them any service.

"Will you suffer me to ask you one thing?" she said. "If Mr Louvaine
go to Oxford, shall you tarry here, or no?"

"Would it be safe for us to follow him?"

"Follow him--no! I did but think you might better love to be forth of
this smoky town."

"Amen, with all my heart!" said Temperance. "But, Madam, and saving
your Ladyship's presence, crowns bloom not on our raspberry bushes, nor
may horses be bought for a groat apiece down this way."

Mrs Louvaine, behind the cambric, was heard to murmur something about a
sordid spirit, people whose minds never soared, and old maids who knew
nothing of the strength of maternal love.

"Strength o' fiddlesticks!" said Temperance, turning on her. "Madam, I
ask your Ladyship's pardon."

"My dear lady, I cannot answer you as now," was Lady Louvaine's reply.
"The pillar of cloud hath not moved as yet; and so long as it tarrieth,
so long must I also. It may be, as seemeth but like, that my next home
will be the churchyard vault, that let my Father judge. If it had been
His will, that I might have laid my bones in mine own country, and by
the side of my beloved, it had been pleasant to flesh and blood: but I
know well