husband as
Providence might send her. She had tried that before, and had
convinced herself that Providence could never send her any that could
be acceptable. The one man had taken possession of her, and there
never could be a second. She had not known her own strength,--or her
own weakness as the case might be,--when she had agreed to surrender
the man she loved because there had been an alteration in their
prospects of an income. She had struggled with herself, had attempted
to amuse herself with the world, had told herself that somebody would
come who would banish that image from her thoughts and heart. She had
bade herself to submit to the separation for his welfare. Then she
had endeavoured to quiet herself by declaring to herself that the
man was no hero,--was unworthy of so much thinking. But it had all
been of no avail. Gertrude Tringle had been a festering sore to her.
Frank, whether a hero or only a commonplace man, was,--as she owned
to herself,--hero enough for her. Then came the opening for a renewal
of the engagement. Frank had been candid with her, and had told her
everything. The Tringle money would not be forthcoming on his behalf.
Then,--not resolving to entice him back again,--she had done so.
The word was odious to her, and was rejected with disdain when used
against her by her brother;--but, when alone, she acknowledged to
herself that it was true. She had enticed her lover back again,--to
his great detriment. Yes; she certainly had enticed him back. She
certainly was about to sacrifice him because of her love. "If I could
only die, and there be an end of it!" she exclaimed to herself.

Though Tregothnan Hall, as the Docimers' house was called, was not
open to Frank Houston, there was the post running always. He had
written to her half-a-dozen times since she had been in Cornwall,
and had always spoken of their engagement as an affair at last
irrevocably fixed. She, too, had written little notes, tender and
loving, but still tinged by that tone of despondency which had become
common to her. "As for naming a day," she said once, "suppose we fix
the first of January, ten years hence. Mudbury's opposition will be
worn out by old age, and you will have become thoroughly sick of the
pleasures of London." But joined to this there would be a few jokes,
and then some little word of warmest, most enduring, most trusting
love. "Don't believe me if I say that I am not happy in knowing that
I am altogether you