rlie was in all my thoughts when
the ship brought me back, and the morning light showed the friendly
shore in view.

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes back to the old love. I
write of her as Laura Fairlie still. It is hard to think of her, it is
hard to speak of her, by her husband's name.

There are no more words of explanation to add on my appearance for the
second time in these pages. This narrative, if I have the strength and
the courage to write it, may now go on.

My first anxieties and first hopes when the morning came centred in my
mother and my sister. I felt the necessity of preparing them for the
joy and surprise of my return, after an absence during which it had
been impossible for them to receive any tidings of me for months past.
Early in the morning I sent a letter to the Hampstead Cottage, and
followed it myself in an hour's time.

When the first meeting was over, when our quiet and composure of other
days began gradually to return to us, I saw something in my mother's
face which told me that a secret oppression lay heavy on her heart.
There was more than love--there was sorrow in the anxious eyes that
looked on me so tenderly--there was pity in the kind hand that slowly
and fondly strengthened its hold on mine. We had no concealments from
each other. She knew how the hope of my life had been wrecked--she
knew why I had left her. It was on my lips to ask as composedly as I
could if any letter had come for me from Miss Halcombe, if there was
any news of her sister that I might hear. But when I looked in my
mother's face I lost courage to put the question even in that guarded
form. I could only say, doubtingly and restrainedly--

"You have something to tell me."

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a
word of explanation--rose and left the room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my
neck. Those fond arms trembled--the tears flowed fast over the
faithful loving face.

"Walter!" she whispered, "my own darling! my heart is heavy for you.
Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!"

My head sank on her bosom. She had said all in saying those words.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was the morning of the third day since my return--the morning of the
sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the cottage--I had tried hard not to
embitter the happiness of my return to TH