s, one of which, without any great
impropriety, might be called junk; but this was the powdered beef of our
ancestors, a huge piece just slightly salted in the house itself, so that
the generous juice remained in it, but the piquant slices, with the mealy
potatoes, made a delightful combination. The glasses were filled with
home-brewed ale, sparkling and clear and golden as the finest Madeira.
They all ate manfully, stimulated by the genial hostess. Even Mary
outshone all her former efforts, and although she couldn't satisfy Mrs.
Gilbert, she declared she had never eaten so much in all her life. This
set good Mrs. Gilbert's cheeks all aglow with simple, honest
satisfaction.

Hope drove Mary home in the dog-cart. He was a happy man, but she could
hardly be called a happy woman. She was warm and cold by turns. She had
got her friend back, and that was a comfort, but she was not treating him
with confidence; indeed, she was passively deceiving him, and that
chilled her; but then it would not be for long, and that comforted her,
and yet even when the day should come for the great doors of Clifford
Hall to fly open to her, would not a sad, reproachful look from dear Mr.
Hope somewhat imbitter her cup of happiness? Deceit, and even reticence,
did not come so natural to her as they do to many women: she was not
weak, and she was frank, though very modest.

Mr. Bartley met them at the door, and, owing to Hope's presence, was more
demonstrative than usual. He seemed much pleased at Mary's return, and
delighted at her appearance.

"Well," said he, "I am glad I sent you away for a week. We have all
missed you, my dear, but the change has set you up again, I never saw you
look better. Now you are well, we must try and keep you well."

* * * * *

We must leave the reader to imagine the mixed feelings with which Mrs.
Walter Clifford laid her head upon the pillow that night, and we
undertake to say that the female readers, at all events, will supply this
blank in our narrative much better than we could, though we were to fill
a chapter with that subject alone.

* * * * *

Passion is a terrible enemy to mere affection. Walter Clifford loved his
father dearly, yet for twenty-four hours he had almost forgotten him.
But the moment he turned his horse's head toward Clifford Hall,
uneasiness and something very like remorse began to seize him. Suppose
his father had asked