ut by Hugh and
the courier, and placed in Lady Milborough's carriage. He just smiled
as his eye fell upon Nora, but he did not even put out his hand to
greet her.

"I am to go in the carriage with him," said his wife.

"Of course you are,--and so will I and Louey. I think there will be
room: it is so large. There is a cab for all the things. Dear Emily,
I am so glad to see you."

"Dearest Nora! I shall be able to speak to you by-and-by, but you
must not be angry with me now. How good you have been."

"Has not she been good? I don't understand about the cottage. It
belongs to some friend of hers; and I have not been able to say a
word about the rent. It is so nice;--and looks upon the river. I hope
that he will like it."

"You will be with us?"

"Not just at first. Lady Milborough thinks I had better not,--that he
will like it better. I will come down almost every day, and will stay
if you think he will like it."

These few words were said while the men were putting Trevelyan
into the carriage. And then another arrangement was made. Hugh
hired a second cab, in which he and the courier made a part of the
procession; and so they all went to Twickenham together. Hugh had not
yet learned that he would be rewarded by coming back alone with Nora
in the carriage.

The cottage by the River Thames, which, as far as the party knew, was
nameless, was certainly very much better than the house on the top of
the hill at Casalunga. And now, at last, the wife would sleep once
more under the same roof with her husband, and the separation would
be over. "I suppose that is the Thames," said Trevelyan; and they
were nearly the only words he spoke in Nora's hearing that evening.
Before she started on her return journey, the two sisters were
together for a few minutes, and each told her own budget of news in
short, broken fragments. There was not much to tell. "He is so weak,"
said Mrs. Trevelyan, "that he can do literally nothing. He can hardly
speak. When we give him wine, he will say a few words, and his mind
seems then to be less astray than it was. I have told him just simply
that it was all my doing,--that I have been in fault all through, and
every now and then he will say a word, to shew me that he remembers
that I have confessed."

"My poor Emily!"

"It was better so. What does it all matter? He had suffered so, that
I would have said worse than that to give him relief. The pride has
gone out of me so, that I do not re