It was uttered by Mrs. Fulmort as Phœbe appeared, and was followed by plaintive inquiries for her sisters, and assurances that it would have been better to have stayed in the cool tent, and gone home at once. Phœbe consoled her by ordering the carriage, and explaining that her sisters were at hand with some other girls, then begged leave to go home with Miss Charlecote for the night.

‘My dear, what shall I do with the others without you? Maria has such odd tricks, and Bertha is so teasing without you! You promised they should not tire me!’

‘I will beg them to be good, dear mamma; I am very sorry, but it is only this once. She will be alone. Owen Sandbrook is obliged to go away.’

‘I can’t think what she should want of you,’ moaned her mother, ‘so used as she is to be alone. Did she ask you?’

‘No, she does not know yet. I am to tell her, and that is why I want you to be so kind as to spare me, dear mamma.’

‘My dear, it will not do for you to be carrying young men’s secrets, at least not Owen Sandbrook’s. Your papa would not like it, my dear, until she had acknowledged him for her heir. You have lost your glove, too, Phœbe, and you look so heated, you had better come back with me,’ said Mrs. Fulmort, who would not have withstood for a moment a decree from either of her other daughters.

‘Indeed,’ said Phœbe, ‘you need not fear, mamma. It is nothing of that sort, quite the contrary.’

‘Quite the contrary! You don’t tell me that he has formed another attachment, just when I made sure of your settling at last at the Holt, and you such a favourite with Honor Charlecote. Not one of those plain Miss Raymonds, I hope.’

‘I must not tell, till she has heard,’ said Phœbe, ‘so please say nothing about it. It will vex poor Miss Charlecote sadly, so pray let no one suspect, and I will come back and tell you to-morrow, by the time you are dressed.’

Mrs. Fulmort was so much uplifted by the promise of the grand secret that she made no more opposition, and Maria and Bertha hurried in with Phœbe’s glove, which, with the peculiar fidelity of property wilfully lost, had fallen into their hands while searching for Robert. Both declared they had seen him on the hill, and clamorously demanded him of Phœbe. Her answer, ‘he is not in the forest, you will not find him,’ was too conscious fully to have satisfied the shrewd Bertha, but for the pleasure of discoursing to the other girls upon double gangers, of whom she had stealthily read in some prohibited German literature of her governess’s.

Leaving her to astonish them, Phœbe took up a position near Miss Charlecote, who was talking to the good matronly-looking Lady Raymond, and on the first opportunity offered herself as a companion. On the way home, Honor, much pleased, was proposing to find Owen, and walk through a beautiful and less frequented forest path, when she saw her own carriage coming up with that from Beauchamp, and lamented the mistake which must take her away as soon as Owen could be found.

‘I ventured to order it,’ said Phœbe; ‘I thought you might prefer it. Owen is gone. He left a message with me for you.’

Experience of former blows taught Honora to ask no questions, and to go through the offices of politeness as usual. But Lady Raymond, long a friend of hers, though barely acquainted with Mrs. Fulmort, and never having seen Phœbe before, living as she did on the opposite side of the county, took a moment for turning round to the young girl, and saying with a friendly motherly warmth, far from mere curiosity, ‘I am sure you have bad news for Miss Charlecote. I see you cannot speak of it now, but you must promise me to send to Moorcroft, if Sir John or I can be of any use.’

Phœbe could only give a thankful grasp of the kind hand. The Raymonds were rather despised at home for plain habits, strong religious opinions, and scanty fortunes, but she knew they were Miss Charlecote’s great friends and advisers.

Not till the gay crowd had been left behind did Honor turn to Phœbe, and say gently, ‘My dear, if he is gone off in any foolish way, you had better tell me at once, that something may be done.’

‘He is gone with Robert,’ said Phœbe. ‘Bertha did really see Robert. He had made a sad discovery, and came for Owen. Do you remember that pretty schoolmistress at Wrapworth!’

Never had Phœbe seen such a blanched face and dilated eyes as were turned on her, with the gasping words, ‘Impossible! they would not have told you.’

‘They were obliged,’ said Phœbe; ‘they had to hurry for the train, for she is very ill indeed.’

Honor leant back with folded hands and closed eyes, so that Phœbe almost felt as if she had killed her. ‘I suppose Robert was right to fetch him,’ she said; ‘but their telling you!’

‘Owen told me he fancied Robert had done so,’ said Phœbe, ‘and called out to me something about family claims, and a married man.’

‘Married!’ cried Honora, starting forward. ‘You are sure!’

‘Quite sure,’ repeated Phœbe; ‘he desired me to tell you I was to say he knew he was unpardonable, but he had suffered a great deal, and he was grieved at the sorrow you would feel.’

Having faithfully discharged her message, Phœbe could not help being vexed at the relenting ‘Poor fellow!’

Honor was no longer confounded, as at the first sentences, and though still cast down, was more relieved than her young friend could understand, asking all that had passed between the young men, and when all had been told, leaning back in silence until, when almost at home, she laid her hand on Phœbe’s arm, and said, ‘My child, never think yourself safe from idols.’

She then sought her own room, and Phœbe feared that her presence was intrusive, for she saw her hostess no more till teatime, when the wan face and placid smile almost made her weep at first, then wonder at the calm unconstrained manner in which her amusement was provided for, and feel ready to beg not to be treated like a child or a stranger. When parting for the night, however, Honor tenderly said, ‘Thanks, my dear, for giving up the evening to me.’

‘I have only been an oppression to you.’

‘You did me the greatest good. I did not want discussion; I only wanted kindness. I wish I had you always, but it is better not. Their uncle was right. I spoil every one.’

‘Pray do not say so. You have been our great blessing. If you knew how we wish to comfort you.’

‘You do comfort me. I can watch Robert realizing my visions for others, and you, my twilight moon, my autumn flower. But I must not love you too much, Phœbe. They all suffer for my inordinate affection. But it is too late to talk. Good night, sweet one.’

‘Shall you sleep?’ said Phœbe, wistfully lingering.

‘Yes; I don’t enter into it enough to be haunted. Ah! you have never learnt what it is to feel heavy with trouble. I believe I shall not dwell on it till I know more. There may be much excuse; she may have been artful, and at least Owen dealt fairly by her in one respect. I can better suppose her unworthy than him cruelly neglectful.’

In that hope Honor slept, and was not more depressed than Phœbe had seen her under Lucilla’s desertion. She put off herjudgment till she should hear more, went about her usual occupations, and sent Phœbe home till letters should come, when they would meet again.

Both heard from Robert by the next post, and his letter to Miss Charlecote related all that he had been able to collect from Mrs. Murrell, or from Owen himself. The narrative is here given more fully than he was able to make it. Edna Murrell, born with the susceptible organization of a musical temperament, had in her earliest childhood been so treated as to foster refined tastes and aspirations, such as disgusted her with the respectable vulgarity of her home. The pet of the nursery and school-room looked down on the lodge kitchen and parlour, and her discontent was a matter of vanity with her parents, as a sign of her superiority, while plausibility and caution were continually enjoined on her rather by example than by precept, and she was often aware of her mother’s indulgence of erratic propensities in religion, unknown either to her father or his employers.

Unexceptionable as had been her training-school education, the high cultivation and soundness of doctrine had so acted on her as to keep her farther aloof from her mother, whose far more heartfelt religion appeared to her both distasteful and contemptible, and whose advice was thus cast aside as prejudiced and sectarian.

Such was the preparation for the unprotected life of a schoolmistress in a house by herself. Servants and small tradesfolk were no companions to her, and were offended by her ladylike demeanour; and her refuge was in books that served but to increase the perils of sham romance, and in enthusiastic adoration of the young lady, whose manners apparently placed her on an equality, although her beauty and musical talents were in truth only serving as a toy.

Her face and voice had already been thrust on Owen’s notice before the adventure with the bargeman had constituted the young gentleman the hero of her grateful imagination, and commenced an intercourse for which his sister’s inconsiderate patronage gave ample opportunities. His head was full of the theory of fusion of classes, and of the innate refinement, freshness of intellect, and vigour of perception of the unsophisticated, at least so he thought, and when he lent her books, commenting on favourite passages, and talked poetry or popular science to her, he imagined himself walking in the steps of those who were asserting the claims of intelligence to cultivation, and sowing broadcast the seeds of art, literature, and emancipation. Perhaps he knew not how often he was betrayed into tokens of admiration, sufficient to inflame such a disposition as he had to deal with, and if he were aware of his influence, and her adoration, it idly flattered and amused him, without thought of the consequences.

On the night when she had fainted at the sight of his attention to Phœbe, she was left on his hands in a state when all caution and reserve gave way, and her violent agitation fully awakened him to the perception of the expectations he had caused, the force of the feelings he had aroused. A mixture of pity, vanity, and affection towards the beautiful creature before him had led to a response such as did not disappoint her, and there matters might have rested for the present, but that their interview had been observed. Edna, terror-stricken, believing herself irretrievably disgraced, had thrown herself on his mercy in a frantic condition, such as made him dread exposure for himself, as well as suspense for her tempestuous nature.

With all his faults, the pure atmosphere in which he had grown up, together with the tone of his associates, comparatively free from the grosser and more hard-hearted forms of vice, had concurred with poor Edna’s real modesty and principle in obtaining the sanction of marriage, for her flight with him from the censure of Wrapworth, and the rebukes of her mother. Throughout, his feeling had been chiefly stirred up by the actual sight of her beauty, and excited by her fervent passion. When absent from her, there had been always regrets and hesitations, such as would have prevailed, save for his compassion, and dread of the effects of her desperation, both for her and for himself. The unpardonable manner in which he knew himself to have acted, made it needful to plunge deeper for the very sake of concealment.

Yet, once married, he would have been far safer if he had confessed the fact to his only true friend, since it must surely come to light some time or other, but he had bred himself up in the habit of schoolboy shuffling, hiding everything to the last moment, and he could not bear to be cast off by the Charterises, be pitied and laughed at by his Oxford friends, nor to risk Honor Charlecote’s favour, perhaps her inheritance. Return to Oxford the victim of an attachment to a village schoolmistress! Better never return thither at all, as would be but too probably the case! No! the secret must be kept till his first start in life should be secure; and he talked to Edna of his future curacy, while she fed her fancy with visions of lovely parsonages and ‘clergymen’s ladies’ in a world of pensive bliss, and after the honeymoon in Ireland, promised to wait patiently, provided her mother might know all.

Owen had not realized the home to which he was obliged to resign his wife, nor his mother-in-law’s powers of tongue. There were real difficulties in the way of his visiting her. It was the one neighbourhood in London where his person might be known, and if he avoided daylight, he became the object of espial to the disappointed lodgers, who would have been delighted to identify the ‘Mr. Brook’ who had monopolized the object of their admiration. These perils, the various disagreeables, and especially Mrs. Murrell’s complaints and demands for money, had so much annoyed Owen, who felt himself the injured party in the connection, that he had not only avoided the place, but endeavoured to dismiss the whole humiliating affair from his mind, trying to hinder himself from being harassed by letters, and when forced to attend to the representations of the women, sending a few kind words and promises, with such money as he could spare, always backed, however, by threats of the consequences of a disclosure, which he vaguely intimated would ruin his prospects for life.

Little did the thoughtless boy comprehend the cruelty of his neglect. In the underground rooms of the City lodging-house, the voluntary prison of the shame-faced, half-owned wife, the overwrought headache, incidental to her former profession, made her its prey; nervous fever came on as the suspense became more trying, and morbid excitement alternated with torpor and depression. Medical advice was long deferred, and that which was at last sought was not equal to her needs. It remained for the physician, summoned by Robert, in his horror at her delirium, to discover that her brain had long been in a state of irritation, which had become aggravated to such a degree that death was even to be desired. Could she yet survive, it could hardly be to the use of her intellect.

Robert described poor Owen’s impetuous misery, and the cares which he lavished on the unconscious sufferer, mentioning him with warmth and tenderness that amazed Honor, from one so stern of judgment. Nay, Robert was more alive to the palliations of Owen’s conduct than she was herself. She grieved over the complicated deceit, and resented the cruelty to the wife with the keen severity of secluded womanhood, unable to realize the temptations of young-manhood.

‘Why could he not have told me?’ she said. ‘I could so easily have forgiven him for generous love, if I alone had been offended, and there had been no falsehood; but after the way he has used us all, and chiefly that poor young thing, I can never feel that he is the same.’

And, though the heart that knew no guile had been saved from suffering, the thought of the intimacy that she had encouraged, and the wishes she had entertained for Phœbe, filled her with such dismay, that it required the sight of the innocent, serene face, and the sound of the happy, unembarrassed voice, to reassure her that her darling’s peace had not been wrecked. For, though Owen had never overpassed the bounds of the familiar intercourse of childhood, there had been an implication of preference in his look and tone; nor had there been error in the intuition of poor Edna’s jealous passion. Something there was of involuntary reverence that had never been commanded by the far more beautiful and gifted girl who had taken him captive.

So great was the shock that Honora moved about mechanically, hardly able to think. She knew that in time she should pardon her boy; but she could not yearn to do so till she had seen him repent. He had sinned too deeply against others to be taken home at once to her heart, even though she grieved over him with deep, loving pity, and sought to find the original germs of error rather in herself than in him.

Had she encouraged deceit by credulous trust? Alas! alas! that should but have taught him generosity. It was the old story. Fond affection had led her to put herself into a position to which Providence did not call her, and to which she was, therefore, unequal. Fond affection had blinded her eyes, and fostered in its object the very faults most hateful to her. She could only humble herself before her Maker for the recurring sin, and entreat for her own pardon, and for that of the offender with whose sins she charged herself.

And to man she humbled herself by her confession to Captain Charteris, and by throwing herself unreservedly on the advice of Mr. Saville and Sir John Raymond, for her future conduct towards the culprit. If he were suffering now for her rejection of the counsel of manhood and experience, it was right that they should deal with him now, and she would try to bear it. And she also tried as much as possible to soften the blow to Lucilla, who was still abroad with her cousins.

CHAPTER XII

A little grain of conscience made him sour.

Tennyson

‘A penny for your thoughts, Cilly,’ said Horatia, sliding in on the slippery boards of a great bare room of a lodging-house at the celebrated Spa of Spitzwasserfitzung.

‘My thoughts? I was trying to recollect the third line of

“Sated at home, of wife and children tired,
Sated abroad, all seen and naught admired.”’

‘Bless me, how grand! Worth twopence. So good how Shakspeare, as the Princess Ottilie would say!’

‘Twopence for its sincerity! It is not for your sake that I am not in Old England.’

‘Nor for that of the three flaxen-haired princesses, with religious opinions to be accommodated to those of the crowned heads they may marry?’

‘I’m sick of the three, and their raptures. I wish I was as ignorant as you, and that Shakspeare had never been read at the Holt.’

‘This is a sudden change. I thought Spitzwasserfitzung and its princesses had brought halcyon days.’

‘Halcyon days will never come till we get home.’

‘Which Lolly will never do. She passes for somebody here, and will never endure Castle Blanch again.’

‘I’ll make Owen come and take me home.’

‘No,’ said Rashe, seriously, ‘don’t bring Owen here. If Lolly likes to keep Charles where gaming is man’s sole resource, don’t run Owen into that scrape.’

‘What a despicable set you are!’ sighed Lucilla. ‘I wonder why I stay with you.’

‘You might almost as well be gone,’ said Ratia. ‘You aren’t half so useful in keeping things going as you were once; and you won’t be ornamental long, if you let your spirits be so uncertain.’

‘And pray how is that to be helped? No, don’t come out with that stupid thing.’

‘Commonplace because it is reasonable. You would have plenty of excitement in the engagement, and then no end of change, and settle down into a blooming little matron, with all the business of the world on your hands. You have got him into excellent training by keeping him dangling so long; and it is the only chance of keeping your looks or your temper. By the time I come and stay with you, you’ll be so agreeable you won’t know yourself—’

‘Blessings on that hideous post-horn for stopping your mouth!’ cried Lucilla, springing up. ‘Not that letters ever come to me.’

Letters and Mr. and Mrs. Charteris all entered together, and Rashe was busy with her own share, when Lucilla came forward with a determined face, unlike her recent listless look, and said, ‘I am wanted at home. I shall start by the diligence to-night.’

‘How now?’ said Charles. ‘The old lady wanting you to make her will?’

‘No,’ said Lucilla, with dignity. ‘My brother’s wife is very ill. I must go to her.’

‘Is she demented?’ asked Charles, looking at his sister.

‘Raving,’ was the answer. ‘She has been so the whole morning. I shall cut off her hair, and get ice for her head.’

‘I tell simple truth,’ returned Cilla. ‘Here is a letter from Honor Charlecote, solving the two mysteries of last summer. Owen’s companion, who Rashe would have it was Jack Hastings—’

‘Ha! married, then! The cool hand! And verily, but that Cilly takes it so easily, I should imagine it was her singing prodigy—eh? It was, then?’

‘Absurd idiot!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘There, he is done for now!’

‘Yes,’ drawled Eloïsa; ‘one never could notice a low person like that.’

‘She is my sister, remember!’ cried Lucilla, with stamping foot and flashing eye.

‘Cunning rogue!’ continued Horatia. ‘How did he manage to give no suspicion? Oh! what fun! No wonder she looked green and yellow when he was flirting with the little Fulmort! Let’s hear all, Cilly—how, when, and where?’

‘At the Registrar’s, at R–, July 14th, 1854,’ returned Lucilla, with defiant gravity.

‘Last July!’ said Charles. ‘Ha! the young donkey was under age—hadn’t consent of guardian. I don’t believe the marriage will hold water. I’ll write to Stevens this minute.’

‘Well, that would be luck!’ exclaimed Rashe.

‘Much better than he deserves,’ added Charles, ‘to be such a fool as to run into the noose and marry the girl.’

Lucilla was trembling from head to foot, and a light gleamed in her eyes; but she spoke so quietly that her cousins did not apprehend her intention in the question—

‘You mean what you say?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Charles. ‘I’m not sure of the law, and some of the big-wigs are very cantankerous about declaring an affair of this sort null; but I imagine there is a fair chance of his getting quit for some annual allowance to her; and I’ll do my best, even if I had to go to London about it. A man is never ruined till he is married.’

‘Thank you,’ returned Lucilla, her lips trembling with bitter irony. ‘Now I know what you all are made of. We are obliged for your offered exertion, but we are not inclined to become traitors.’

‘Cilly! I thought you had more sense! You are no child!’

‘I am a woman—I feel for womanhood. I am a sister—I feel for my brother’s honour.’

Charles burst into a laugh. Eloïsa remonstrated—‘My dear, consider the disgrace to the whole family—a village schoolmistress!’

‘Our ideas differ as to disgrace,’ said Lucilla. ‘Let me go, Ratia; I must pack for the diligence.’

The brother and sister threw themselves between her and the door. ‘Are you insane, Cilly? What do you mean should become of you? Are you going to join the ménage, and teach the A B C?’

‘I am going to own my sister while yet there is time,’ said Lucilla. ‘While you are meditating how to make her a deserted outcast, death is more merciful. Pining under the miseries of an unowned marriage, she is fast dying of pressure on the brain. I am going in the hope of hearing her call me sister. I am going to take charge of her child, and stand by my brother.’

‘Dying, poor thing! Why did you not tell us before?’ said Horatia, sobered.

‘I did not know it was to save Charles so much kind trouble,’ said Lucilla. ‘Let me go, Rashe; you cannot detain me.’

‘I do believe she is delighted,’ said Horatia, releasing her.

In truth, she was inspirited by perceiving any door of escape. Any vivid sensation was welcome in the irksome vacancy that pursued her in the absence of immediate excitement. Devoid of the interest of opposition, and of the bracing changes to the Holt, her intercourse with the Charterises had become a weariness and vexation of spirit. Idle foreign life deteriorated them, and her principle and delicacy suffered frequent offences; but like all living wilfully in temptation, she seemed under a spell, only to be broken by an act of self-humiliation to which she would not bend. Longing for the wholesome atmosphere of Hiltonbury, she could not brook to purchase her entrance there by permitting herself to be pardoned. There was one whom she fully intended should come and entreat her return, and the terms of her capitulation had many a time been arranged with herself; but when he came not, though her heart ached after him, pride still forbade one homeward step, lest it should seem to be in quest of him, or in compliance with his wishes.

Here, then, was a summons to England—nay, into his very parish—without compromising her pride or forcing her to show deference to rejected counsel. Nay, in contrast with her cousins, she felt her sentiments so lofty and generous that she was filled with the gladness of conscious goodness, so like the days of her early childhood, that a happy dew suffused her eyes, and she seemed to hear the voice of old Thames. Her loathing for the views of her cousins had borne down all resentment at her brother’s folly and Edna’s presumption; and relieved that it was not worse, and full of pity for the girl she had really loved, Honor’s grieved displeasure and Charles’s kind project together made her the ardent partisan of the young wife. Because Honor intimated that the girl had been artful, and had forced herself on Owen, Lucilla was resolved that her favourite had been the most perfect of heroines; and that circumstance alone should bear such blame as could not be thrown on Honor herself and the Wrapworth gossipry. Poor circumstances!

The journey gave her no concern. The way was direct to Ostend, and Spitzwasserfitzung contained a ‘pension,’ which was a great resort of incipient English governesses, so that there were no difficulties such as to give her enterprising spirit the least concern. She refused the escort that Rashe would have pressed upon her, and made her farewells with quiet resolution. No further remonstrance was offered; and though each party knew that what had passed would be a barrier for ever, good breeding preferred an indifferent parting. There were light, cheery words, but under the full consciousness that the friendship begun in perverseness had ended in contempt.

Horatia turned aside with a good-natured ‘Poor child! she will soon wish herself back.’ Lucilla, taking her last glance, sighed as she thought, ‘My father did not like them. But for Honor, I would never have taken up with them.’

Without misadventure, Lucilla arrived at London Bridge, and took a cab for Woolstone-lane, where she must seek more exact intelligence of the locality of those she sought. So long had her eye been weary of novelty, while her mind was ill at ease, that even Holborn in the August sun was refreshingly homelike; and begrimed Queen Anne, ‘sitting in the sun’ before St. Paul’s, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of hope and self-approval. An effort was necessary to recall how melancholy was the occasion of her journey, and all mournful anticipation was lost in the spirit of partisanship and patronage—yes, and in that pervading consciousness that each moment brought her nearer to Whittingtonia.

Great was the amaze of good Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, at the arrival of Miss Lucy, and equal disappointment that she would neither eat nor rest, nor accept a convoy to No. 8, Little Whittington-street. She tripped off thither the instant she had ascertained the number of the house, and heard that her brother was there, and his wife still living.

She had formed to herself no image of the scenes before her, and was entirely unprepared by reflection when she rang at the door. As soon as she mentioned her name, the little maid conducted her down-stairs, and she found herself in the sitting-room, face to face with Robert Fulmort.

Without showing surprise or emotion, or relaxing his grave, listening air, he merely bowed his head, and held out his hand. There was an atmosphere of awe about the room, as though she had interrupted a religious office; and she stood still in the solemn hush, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. The opposite door was ajar, and from within came a kind of sobbing moan, and a low, feeble, faltering voice faintly singing—

‘For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep.’

The choking thrill of unwonted tears rushed over Lucilla, and she shuddered. Robert looked disappointed as he caught the notes; then placing a seat for Lucilla, said, very low, ‘We hoped she would waken sensible. Her mother begged me to be at hand.’

‘Has she never been sensible?’

‘They hoped so, at one time, last night. She seemed to know him.’

‘Is he there?’

Robert only sighed assent, for again the voice was heard—‘I must get up. Miss Sandbrook wants me. She says I shan’t be afraid when the time comes; but oh!—so many, many faces—all their eyes looking; and where is he?—why doesn’t he look? Oh! Miss Sandbrook, don’t bring that young lady here—I know—I know it is why he never comes—keep her away—’

The voice turned to shrieking sobs. There were sounds of feet and hurried movements, and Owen came out, gasping for breath, and his face flushed. ‘I can’t bear it,’ he said, with his hands over his face.

‘Can I be of use?’ asked Robert.

‘No; the nurse can hold her;’ and he leant his arms on the mantelpiece, his frame shaken with long-drawn sobs. He had never even seen his sister, and she was too much appalled to speak or move.

When the sounds ceased, Owen looked up to listen, and Robert said, ‘Still no consciousness?’

‘No, better not. What would she gain by it?’

‘It must be better not, if so ordained,’ said Robert.

‘Pshaw! what are last feelings and words? As if a blighted life and such suffering were not sure of compensation. There’s more justice in Heaven than in your system!’

He was gone; and Robert with a deep sigh said, ‘I am not judging. I trust there were tokens of repentance and forgiveness; but it is painful, as her mother feels it, to hear how her mind runs on light songs and poetry.’

‘Mechanically!’

‘True; and delirium is no criterion of the state of mind. But it is very mournful. In her occupation, one would have thought habit alone would have made her ear catch other chimes.’

Lucilla remembered with a pang that she had sympathized with Edna’s weariness of the monotony of hymn and catechism. Thinking poetry rather dull and tiresome, she had little guessed at the effect of sentimental songs and volumes of L. E. L. and the like, on an inflammable mind, when once taught to slake her thirsty imagination beyond the S.P.C.K. She did not marvel at the set look of pain with which Robert heard passionate verses of Shelley and Byron fall from those dying lips. They must have been conned by heart, and have been the favourite study, or they could hardly thus recur.