n her aunt's face, rose to a
sitting position.

'Ill?' She laughed in a forced way. 'O, that would never do! Ill after
all? Why, that would spoil everything. Are you going out this morning?'

'Certainly not. I should only have done some idle shopping.'

'Then you shall do the shopping, and I will go with you. Yes, yes, I
will go! It is the only way. Let us go where we shall see people; I wish
to. I will be ready in five minutes.'

'But, Beatrice--.'

'O, don't fear my looks; you shall see if I betray myself! Quick,
quick,--to Regent Street, Bond Street, where we shall gee people! I
shall be ready before you.'

They set forth, and Beatrice had no illness.

CHAPTER XXVI

MID-DAY

Once more at The Firs. Wilfrid had decided to make this his abode. It
was near enough to London to allow of his going backwards and forwards
as often as might be necessary; his father's town house offered the
means of change for Emily, and supplied him with a _pied-a-terre_ in
time of session. By limiting his attendance at the House as far as
decency would allow, he was able to enjoy with small interruption the
quiet of his home in Surrey, and a growing certainty that the life of
the present Parliament would be short encouraged him in looking forward
to the day when politics would no longer exist for him.

He and Emily established themselves at The Firs towards the end of
December, having spent a week with Mr. Athel on their return from the
Continent. Emily's health had improved, but there was no likelihood that
she would ever be other than a delicate flower, to be jealously guarded
from the sky's ruder breath by him to whom she was a life within life.
Ambition as he formerly understood it had no more meaning for Wilfrid;
the fine ardour of his being rejected grosser nourishment and burned in
altar-flame towards the passion-pale woman whom he after all called
wife. Emily was an unfailing inspiration; by her side the nobler zeal of
his youth renewed itself; in the light of her pure soul he saw the world
as poetry and strove for that detachment of the intellect which in Emily
was a gift of nature.

She, Emily--Emily Athel, as she joyed to write herself--moved in her new
sphere like a spirit humbled by victory over fate. It was a mild winter;
the Surrey hills were tender against the brief daylight, and gardens
breathed the freshness of evergreens. When the sun trembled over the
landscape for a short hour, Emily loved to stray a