ir of
candles stood upon the table, and that the tea-things had been laid
there. "You are all wet," she said. "Where have you been?"

"He has told me all," the girl replied, without answering the
question. "Oh, mamma;--how could you do it?"

"Who has driven me to it? It has been you,--you, you. Well;--what
else?"

"Mamma, he has forgiven you."

"Forgiven me! I will not have his forgiveness."

"Oh, mamma;--if I forgive you, will you not be friends with us?" She
stooped over her mother, and kissed her, and then went on and told
what she had to tell. She stood and told it all in a low voice, so
that no ear but that of her mother should hear her,--how the ball had
hit him, how it had been extracted, how nothing had been and nothing
should be told, how Daniel would forgive it all and be her friend,
if she would let him. "But, mamma, I hope you will be sorry." The
Countess sat silent, moody, grim, with her eyes fixed on the table.
She would say nothing. "And, mamma,--I must go to him every day,--to
do things for him and to help to nurse him. Of course he will be my
husband now." Still the Countess said not a word, either of approval
or of dissent. Lady Anna sat down for a moment or two, hoping that
her mother would allow her to eat and drink in the room, and that
thus they might again begin to live together. But not a word was
spoken nor a motion made, and the silence became awful, so that the
girl did not dare to keep her seat. "Shall I go, mamma?" she said.

"Yes;--you had better go." After that they did not see each other
again on that evening, and during the week or ten days following they
lived apart.

On the following morning, after an early breakfast, Lady Anna went to
Great Russell Street, and there she remained the greater part of the
day. The people of the house understood that the couple were to be
married as soon as their lodger should be well, and had heard much of
the magnificence of the marriage. They were kind and good, and the
tailor declared very often that this was the happiest period of his
existence. Of all the good turns ever done to him, he said, the wound
in his back had been the best. As his sweetheart sat by his bedside
they planned their future life. They would still go to the distant
land on which his heart was set, though it might be only for awhile;
and she, with playfulness, declared that she would go there as Mrs.
Thwaite. "I suppose they can't prevent me calling myself Mrs.
Thwaite,