ly English,
charitable, hospitable, a doer of good to those around him. In
judging of such a character we find the difficulty of drawing the
line between political sagacity and political prejudice. Had he been
other than he was, he would probably have been less serviceable in
his position.

The bride and bridegroom went for their honeymoon into Devonshire,
and on their road they passed through London. Lady Anna Thwaite,--for
she had not at least as yet been able to drop her title,--wrote to
her mother telling her of her arrival, and requesting permission to
see her. On the following day she went alone to Keppel Street and was
admitted. "Dear, dear mamma," she said, throwing herself into the
arms of her mother.

"So it is done?" said the Countess.

"Yes;--mamma,--we are married. I wrote to you from York."

"I got your letter, but I could not answer it. What could I say?
I wish it had not been so;--but it is done. You have chosen for
yourself, and I will not reproach you."

"Do not reproach me now, mamma."

"It would be useless. I will bear my sorrows in silence, such as they
are. Do not talk to me of him, but tell me what is the life that is
proposed for you."

They were to stay in the south of Devonshire for a month and then to
sail for the new colony founded at the Antipodes. As to any permanent
mode of life no definite plan had yet been formed. They were bound
for Sydney, and when there, "my husband,"--as Lady Anna called
him, thinking that the word might be less painful to the ears of
her mother than the name of the man who had become so odious to
her,--would do as should seem good to him. They would at any rate
learn something of the new world that was springing up, and he would
then be able to judge whether he would best serve the purpose that he
had at heart by remaining there or by returning to England. "And now,
mamma, what will you do?"

"Nothing," said the Countess.

"But where will you live?"

"If I could only find out, my child, where I might die, I would tell
you that."

"Mamma, do not talk to me of dying."

"How should I talk of my future life, my dear? For what should I
live? I had but you, and you have left me."

"Come with me, mamma."

"No, my dear. I could not live with him nor he with me. It will be
better that he and I should never see each other again."

"But you will not stay here?"

"No;--I shall not stay here. I must use myself to solitude, but the
solitude of London is un