had turned of late!--and then waited,
with a flush on her cheek--like that of a young girl waiting for her
lover--for the sound of carriage-wheels.

All that had to be told about Guy--and it was better news than any one
of us had hoped for--John had already told in his letters. When he
came back, therefore, he was burthened with no trouble
undisclosed--greeted with no anguish of fear or bitter remembrance. As
he sprang out of the post-chaise, it was to find his wife standing at
the door, and his home smiling for him its brightest welcome. No
blessing on earth could be like the blessing of the father's return.

John looked pale, but not paler than might have been expected. Grave,
too--but it was a soft seriousness altogether free from the
restlessness of keen anxiety. The first shock of this heavy misfortune
was over. He had paid all his son's debts; he had, as far as was
possible, saved his good name; he had made a safe home for the lad, and
heard of his safely reaching it, in the New World. Nothing more was
left but to cover over the inevitable grief, and hope that time would
blot out the intolerable shame. That since Guy's hand was clear of
blood--and, since his recovery, Sir Gerard Vermilye had risen into a
positive hero of society--men's minds would gradually lose the
impression of a deed committed in heat of youth, and repented of with
such bitter atonement.

So the father took his old place, and looked round on the remnant of
his children, grave indeed, but not weighed down by incurable
suffering. Something, deeper even than the hard time he had recently
passed through, seemed to have made his home more than ever dear to
him. He sat in his arm-chair, never weary of noticing everything
pleasant about him, of saying how pretty Beechwood looked, and how
delicious it was to be at home. And perpetually, if any chance
unlinked it, his hand would return to its clasp of Ursula's; the
minute she left her place by his side, his restless "Love, where are
you going?" would call her back again. And once, when the children
were out of the room, and I, sitting in a dark corner, was probably
thought absent likewise, I saw John take his wife's face between his
two hands, and look in it--the fondest, most lingering, saddest
look!--then fold her tightly to his breast.

"I must never be away from her again. Mine--for as long as I live,
mine--MY wife, MY Ursula!"

She took it all naturally, as she had taken every exp