-most true! And yet I was a little out of spirits. Ah,
well! well! the remedy was within a day's journey. The sooner I was with
Eustace the better.

Early the next morning I left London for Paris by the tidal-train.
Benjamin accompanied me to the Terminus.

"I shall write to Edinburgh by to-day's post," he said, in the interval
before the train moved out of the station. "I think I can find the man
Mr. Playmore wants to help him, if he decides to go on. Have you any
message to send, Valeria?"

"No. I have done with it, Benjamin; I have nothing more to say."

"Shall I write and tell you how it ends, if Mr. Playmore does really try
the experiment at Gleninch?"

I answered, as I felt, a little bitterly.

"Yes," I said "Write and tell me if the experiment fail."

My old friend smiled. He knew me better than I knew myself.

"All right!" he said, resignedly. "I have got the address of your
banker's correspondent in Paris. You will have to go there for money, my
dear; and you _may_ find a letter waiting for you in the office when you
least expect it. Let me hear how your husband goes on. Good-by--and God
bless you!"

That evening I was restored to Eustace.

He was too weak, poor fellow, even to raise his head from the pillow.
I knelt down at the bedside and kissed him. His languid, weary eyes
kindled with a new life as my lips touched his. "I must try to live
now," he whispered, "for your sake."

My mother-in-law had delicately left us together. When he said those
words the temptation to tell him of the new hope that had come to
brighten our lives was more than I could resist.

"You must try to live now, Eustace," I said, "for some one else besides
me."

His eyes looked wonderingly into mine.

"Do you mean my mother?" he asked.

I laid my head on his bosom, and whispered back--"I mean your child."

I had all my reward for all that I had given up. I forgot Mr. Playmore;
I forgot Gleninch. Our new honeymoon dates, in my remembrance, from that
day.

The quiet time passed, in the by-street in which we lived. The outer
stir and tumult of Parisian life ran its daily course around us,
unnoticed and unheard. Steadily, though slowly, Eustace gained strength.
The doctors, with a word or two of caution, left him almost entirely to
me. "You are his physician," they said; "the happier you make him, the
sooner he will recover." The quiet, monotonous round of my new life
was far from wearying me. I, too, wanted repose--I