aving been with her in those lodgings, if
she should see Rowland.

'But you will be back soon?' said poor Netta.

'In a few days I hope, or else I will send for you. I must leave
to-morrow morning at daybreak.'

A few weeks ago and neither husband nor wife would have cared how long
the separation might be, now it seemed death for each to part.

Howel kissed his child again and again as she lay sleeping in her dingy
bed, and held Netta long in his arms. The only human being who really
loved him! Him, weak, wild, sinful, godless! yet with one divine spark
rekindling in his breast--the spark of human love.

He laid his wife, fainting, by the side of her child on the bed, bathed
her temples with water until he saw that she would revive, and then
rushed out into the dirty streets, under the misty, murky morning sky, a
reckless and miserable man.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE ACCOUNTANT.

'I never shall get through these accounts!' is the soliloquy of Miss
Gwynne, to whom we return with much pleasure, on my part, at least,
after a separation of six years.

She is seated in a gloomy but comfortable dining-room, in a house
situated in one of the squares at the East End of London. We left her in
her large, airy, country home, looking out upon a beautiful view of hill
and valley--we find her in a close, dark square, with nothing to enliven
the scene without but a few dingy shrubs, a row of tall gaunt houses,
and a smoke-discoloured, soot-filled atmosphere. We left her unhappy and
discontented--we find her happy and contented. We left her with a mind
harassed by uncertain plans, disappointed hopes, and humbled pride--we
find her with a mind strengthened by good purposes, holy aspirations,
and prayers for humility. Still, we left her and find her Winifred
Gwynne. She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.

Reader, be not hasty to pronounce upon the suddenness of these changes.
Six years spent principally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy
of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid
parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly
miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless
woman in the world, provided she had a heart. And Freda has not only a
heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.

She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for
all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of
papers cove