if they are going abroad for this winter, they ought to
be setting out now. You will naturally accompany them to
London; indeed, you can make a point of it with Edward; and
then, once in London, you can easily contrive to stay there.
As Parliament meets at the beginning of November, your coming
back here would probably be out of the question."

"Edward will wish to shoot next month."

"Then go to Hillscombe;--anywhere but here."

"Have you seen that man?"

"Not yet; I shall ride to Bridman this afternoon and find him
out."

"What is he doing there?"

"I don't know; but James tells me he has been staying at the
inn there for the last three weeks."

"Oh, that I were gone from hence! That I had the wings of a
dove to flee away and be at rest! Henry, shall I ever know
again what it is to be at rest?"

"Rest would not do for you. You have too keen a spirit, too
strong a will, and too much genius to know what rest is. A
good thing in its way I grant; but neither for you nor me was
it ever decreed. We can be intensely happy, we can be
intensely miserable. We tremble in the midst of joy, for we
feel that it is too exquisite to last. In anguish we hope on,
for we cannot conceive life without something to brighten its
dull course; and we would rather die than live without a fear,
a hope, an emotion of any sort."

As he said these words he fixed his eyes on his wife, who was
still apparently absorbed in her work at some distance from
us.

She got up at this moment and came towards us. She had a
letter in her hand, which she held out to Henry, and at the
same time she said distinctly and slowly, "This letter was
found at the bottom of _our_ carriage. It was brought to _me_,
and I return it to _you_."

The delicate colour of her cheek was slightly heightened, but
her voice was perfectly calm, and she walked slowly out of the
room. It was my letter to Henry, the only one I had ever
written to him. He had shown it to me the day before, and now
she had seen it, at least, she must have recognised the
handwriting. Henry bit his lip, tore up the paper into
fragments, and threw them into the fire.

He returned to me, and said in a low voice, "Would that my
love, my guilty love for you, could die away like those
fragments in the flame. But, Ellen, it is too late; we have
sown the whirlwind, and we must reap the storm."

When I came down to luncheon, I hardly dared to look towards
Alice. Never had I feared anything so m