re children with dirty faces, and household
bills, and a wife who must, perhaps, always darn the stockings,--and
be sometimes cross. Was love to lead only to this,--a dull life, with
a woman who had lost the beauty from her cheeks, and the gloss from
her hair, and the music from her voice, and the fire from her eye,
and the grace from her step, and whose waist an arm should no longer
be able to span? Did the love of the poets lead to that, and that
only? Then, through the cloud of smoke, there came upon him some
dim idea of self-abnegation,--that the mysterious valley among
the mountains, the far-off prospect of which was so charming to
him,--which made the poetry of his life, was, in fact, the capacity
of caring more for other human beings than for himself. The beauty of
it all was not so much in the thing loved as in the loving. "Were she
a cripple, hunchbacked, eyeless," he said to himself, "it might be
the same. Only she must be a woman." Then he blew off a great cloud
of smoke, and went into bed lost amidst poetry, philosophy, love, and
tobacco.

It had been arranged over-night that he was to start the next morning
at half-past seven, and Priscilla had promised to give him his
breakfast before he went. Priscilla, of course, kept her word. She
was one of those women who would take a grim pleasure in coming
down to make the tea at any possible hour,--at five, at four, if it
were needed,--and who would never want to go to bed again when the
ceremony was performed. But when Nora made her appearance,--Nora, who
had been called dainty,--both Priscilla and Hugh were surprised. They
could not say why she was there,--nor could Nora tell herself. She
had not forgiven him. She had no thought of being gentle and loving
to him. She declared to herself that she had no wish of saying
good-bye to him once again. But yet she was in the room, waiting
for him, when he came down to his breakfast. She had been unable to
sleep, and had reasoned with herself as to the absurdity of lying in
bed awake, when she preferred to be up and out of the house. It was
true that she had not been out of her bed at seven any morning since
she had been at Nuncombe Putney; but that was no reason why she
should not be more active on this special morning. There was a noise
in the house, and she never could sleep when there was a noise. She
was quite sure that she was not going down because she wished to see
Hugh Stanbury, but she was equally sure that it