t uncomfortable!
When--my goodness! we come to think there was some lived before tea!
Why, as I say over almost every cup I drink, it ain't to be realized.
It seems almost wicked to say it, Sir Purcy; but it's my opinion there
ain't a Christian woman who's not made more of a Christian through her
tea. And a man who beats his wife my first question is, 'Do he take
his tea regular?' For, depend upon it, that man is not a tea-drinker at
all."

He let her talk away, feeling oddly pleased by this mundane chatter, as
was she to pour forth her inmost sentiments to a baronet.

When she said: "Your fire shall be lighted to-night to welcome you,"
the man looked up, and was going to request that the trouble might be
spared, but he nodded. His ghost saw the burning fire awaiting him. Or
how if it sparkled merrily, and he beheld it with his human eyes that
night? His beloved would then have touched him with her hand--yea,
brought the dead to life! He jumped to his feet, and dismissed the
worthy dame. On both sides of him, 'Yes,' and 'No,' seemed pressing like
two hostile powers that battled for his body. They shrieked in his ears,
plucked at his fingers. He heard them hushing deeply as he went to his
pistol-case, and drew forth one--he knew not which.

CHAPTER LVI

On a wild April morning, Emilia rose from her bed and called to mind a
day of the last year's Spring when she had watched the cloud streaming
up, and felt that it was the curtain of an unknown glory. But now it
wore the aspect of her life itself, with nothing hidden behind those
stormy folds, save peace. South-westward she gazed, eyeing eagerly the
struggle of twisting vapour; long flying edges of silver went by, and
mounds of faint crimson, and here and there a closing space of blue,
swift as a thought of home to a soldier in action. The heavens were like
a battle-field. Emilia shut her lips hard, to check an impulse of prayer
for Merthyr fighting in Italy: for he was in Italy, and she once more
among the Monmouth hills: he was in Italy fighting, and she chained here
to her miserable promise! Three days after she had given the promise
to Wilfrid, Merthyr left, shaking her hand like any common friend.
Georgiana remained, by his desire, to protect her. Emilia had written
to Wilfrid for release, but being no apt letter-writer, and hating the
task, she was soon involved by him in a complication of bewildering
sentiments, some of which she supposed she was bound to