ithful passion, fair
With tender smiles that come and go,
And comforting as April air
After the snow.

JEAN INGELOW.

Sir Hugh began to wish that he had never gone to Egypt, or that he had
gone with any one but Fitzclarence--he was growing weary of his
vagaries and unpunctuality. They had deviated already four times from
the proposed route, and the consequence was, he had missed all his
letters; and the absence of home news was making him seriously uneasy.
He was the only married man; the rest of the party consisted of gay,
young bachelors--good enough fellows in their way, but utterly
careless. They laughed at Sir Hugh's anxious scruples, and secretly
voted that a married man was rather a bore in this kind of thing. What
was the use of bothering about letters, they said, so long as the
remittances came to hand safely.

Sir Hugh thought of Fay's loving little letters lying neglected at the
different postal towns, and sighed; either he was not so indifferent
to her as he supposed himself to be, or absence was making his heart
tender; but he had never been so full of care and thought for his Wee
Wifie as he was then. He wished he had bidden her good-bye. He
remembered the last time he had seen her, when he had gone into his
study with the telegram in his hand; and then he recalled the strange
wistful look she had given him. He could not tell why the fancy should
haunt him, but he wished so much that he had seen her again and taken
a kinder leave of her. It had not been his fault, he told himself a
hundred times over; but still one never knew what might happen. He
wished now that he had taken her in his arms and had said God bless
her; she was such a child, and he was leaving her for a long time.

Sir Hugh was becoming a wiser man, and was beginning to acknowledge
his faults, and, what was better still, to try and make amends for
them.

It was too late to undo the effects of Fitzclarence's reckless mode of
traveling, but he would do all he could; so in his leisure moments,
when the other men were smoking and chatting in their tent, he sat
down in a quiet corner and wrote several letters, full of descriptions
of their journey, to amuse Fay in her solitude; and one Sunday, when
the others had started on an expedition to see some ruin, he wrote the
explanation that he had deferred so long. Hugh was an honest,
well-meaning man, in spite of his moral weakne