he had omitted to ask Mr. Johnson;
but that was easily remedied. She had not enquired where she could find
Judge Corbet; if she had, Mr. Johnson could probably have given her his
professional address. As it was, she asked for a Post-Office Directory
at the hotel, and looked out for his private dwelling--128 Hyde Park
Gardens.

She rang for a waiter.

"Can I send a messenger to Hyde Park Gardens?" she said, hurrying on to
her business, tired and worn out as she was. "It is only to ask if Judge
Corbet is at home this evening. If he is, I must go and see him."

The waiter was a little surprised, and would gladly have had her name to
authorise the enquiry but she could not bear to send it: it would be bad
enough that first meeting, without the feeling that he, too, had had time
to recall all the past days. Better to go in upon him unprepared, and
plunge into the subject.

The waiter returned with the answer while she yet was pacing up and down
the room restlessly, nerving herself for the interview.

"The messenger has been to Hyde Park Gardens, ma'am. The Judge and Lady
Corbet are gone out to dinner."

Lady Corbet! Of course Ellinor knew that he was married. Had she not
been present at the wedding in East Chester Cathedral? But, somehow,
these recent events had so carried her back to old times, that the
intimate association of the names, "the Judge and Lady Corbet," seemed to
awaken her out of some dream.

"Oh, very well," she said, just as if these thoughts were not passing
rapidly through her mind. "Let me be called at seven to-morrow morning,
and let me have a cab at the door to Hyde Park Gardens at eight."

And so she went to bed; but scarcely to sleep. All night long she had
the scenes of those old times, the happy, happy days of her youth, the
one terrible night that cut all happiness short, present before her. She
could almost have fancied that she heard the long-silent sounds of her
father's step, her father's way of breathing, the rustle of his newspaper
as he hastily turned it over, coming through the lapse of years; the
silence of the night. She knew that she had the little writing-case of
her girlhood with her, in her box. The treasures of the dead that it
contained, the morsel of dainty sewing, the little sister's golden curl,
the half-finished letter to Mr. Corbet, were all there. She took them
out, and looked at each separately; looked at them long--long and
wistfully. "Will it be of