e
from each other, both resenting in silent fury the wrong which the world
in general had done them. If Mrs Elsworthy had dared, she would have
exhausted her passion in abuse of everybody--of the Curate for not being
guilty, of her husband for supposing him to be so, and, to be sure, of
Rosa herself, who was the cause of all. But Elsworthy was dangerous, not
to be approached or spoken to. He went out about noon to see John Brown,
and discuss with him the question of damages; but the occurrences which
took place in his absence are not to be mixed up with the present
narrative, which concerns Mr Frank Wentworth's visit to Lucy Wodehouse,
and has nothing to do with ignoble hates or loves.

The Curate went rapidly on to the green door, which once more looked
like a gate of paradise. He did not know in the least what he was
going to do or say--he was only conscious of a state of exaltation, a
condition of mind which might precede great happiness or great misery,
but had nothing in it of the common state of affairs in which people
ask each other "How do you do?" Notwithstanding, the fact is, that
when Lucy entered that dear familiar drawing-room, where every feature
and individual expression of every piece of furniture was as well
known to him as if they had been so many human faces, it was only "How
do you do?" that the Curate found himself able to say. The two shook
hands as demurely as if Lucy had indeed been, according to the
deceptive representation of yesterday, as old as aunt Dora; and then
she seated herself in her favourite chair, and tried to begin a little
conversation about things in general. Even in these three days, nature
and youth had done something for Lucy. She had slept and rested, and
the unforeseen misfortune which had come in to distract her grief had
roused all the natural strength that was in her. As she was a little
nervous about this interview, not knowing what it might end in, Lucy
thought it her duty to be as composed and self-commanding as possible,
and, in order to avoid all dangerous and exciting subjects, began to
talk of Wharfside.

"I have not heard anything for three or four days about the poor woman
at No. 10," she said; "I meant to have gone to see her to-day, but
somehow one gets so selfish when--when one's mind is full of affairs
of one's own."

"Yes," said the Curate; "and speaking of that, I wanted to tell you
how much comfort your letter had been to me. My head, too, has been
very