t to the wretched lodging in which he had slept for
the past few nights, and Mary at once assumed the management of his
affairs.

She was rewarded--as she thought, poor soul!--for her efforts. When she
had lighted a fire and a candle, and prepared some sort of frugal meal
for the man she loved, he lifted up his face and looked at her with a
gleam of returning memory and intelligence in his haggard eyes.

"Mary," he said, in a bewildered tone, "Mary--my wife? How did you come
here, Mary? How did you find me out?"

"Are you glad to see me, dear?" said Mary.

"Yes--yes, I am. Everything will be right now. You'll manage things for
me."

It was an acknowledgment of the power of her affection which more than
recompensed her for the trouble of the last few months.

CHAPTER XXX.

MRS. TRENT'S STORY.

"I never heard of such an extraordinary thing," said Lesley.

"Then that shows how little you know of the world," said Doctor Sophy,
amicably. "I've heard of a hundred cases of the kind."

"Well, there are some elements of oddity in this case," remarked Caspar
Brooke, striking in with unexpected readiness to defend his daughter's
views. "Kingston was not a giddy young girl, who would go off with any
man who made love to her. Indeed, I can't quite fancy any man making
love to her at all. She was remarkably plain, poor woman."

"She had beautiful eyes," said Lesley. "And she was so nice and quiet
and kind. And I really thought that she was--fond of me." She paused
before she uttered the last three words, being a little afraid that they
would be thought sentimental. And indeed Miss Brooke did give a
contemptuous snort, but Caspar smiled kindly, and patted his daughter's
hand.

"Don't take it to heart," he said. "'Fondness' is a very indeterminate
term, and one that you must not scrutinize too closely. This little
black beast, for instance"--caressing, as he spoke, the head of the
ebony-hued cat which sat upon the arm of his chair--"which I picked up
half-starving in the street when it was a kitten, is fond of me because
I feed it: but suppose that I were too poor to give it milk and
chicken-bones, do you think it would retain any affection for me? A
sublimated cupboard-love is all that we can expect now-a-days from
cats--and servants."

"When you can write as you do about love," said Lesley, who was coming
to know her father well enough to tease him now and then, "I wonder that
you dare venture to express your