or Baden, or Dieppe, or Harrogate, at New York, Jerusalem, or
Frazer's River, matters but little. Where she was last year, there
she is not now. Where she is now, there she will not be next year.
But she still increases the circle of her dearly-loved friends; and
go where she will, she, at any rate, does more good to others than
others do to her. And so we will make our last bow before her feet.

We have only now to speak of George Bertram and of Lady Harcourt--of
them and of Miss Baker, who need hardly now be considered a personage
apart from her niece. No sooner was the first shock of Sir Henry
Harcourt's death past, than Bertram felt that it was impossible for
him at the present moment to see the widow. It was but a few days
since she had declared her abhorrence of the man to whom her fate was
linked, apparently for life, and who was now gone. And that
declaration had implied also that her heart still belonged to him--to
him, George Bertram--him to whom it had first been given--to him,
rather, who had first made himself master of it almost without gift
on her part. Now, as regarded God's laws, her hand was free again,
and might follow her heart.

But death closes many a long account, and settles many a bitter debt.
She could remember now that she had sinned against her husband, as
well as he against her; that she had sinned the first, and perhaps
the deepest. He would have loved her, if she would have permitted it;
have loved her with a cold, callous, worldly love; but still with
such love as he had to give. But she had married him resolving to
give no love at all, knowing that she could give none; almost
boasting to herself that she had told him that she had none to give.

The man's blood was, in some sort, on her head, and she felt that the
burden was very heavy. All this Bertram understood, more thoroughly,
perhaps, than she did; and for many weeks he abstained altogether
from going to Hadley. He met Miss Baker repeatedly in London, and
learned from her how Lady Harcourt bore herself. How she bore herself
outwardly, that is. The inward bearing of such a woman in such a
condition it was hardly given to Miss Baker to read. She was well in
health, Miss Baker said, but pale and silent, stricken, and for hours
motionless. "Very silent," Miss Baker would say. "She will sit for a
whole morning without speaking a word; thinking--thinking--thinking."
Yes; she had something of which, to think. It was no wonder that she