“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think when your mistress told you she was going to London?  Did you think it odd she was going without me?”

“I did not presume to think it odd, sir.—­Is there anything more I can do for you, if you please, sir?”

“What sort of a morning is it out?  Is it warm?  Is the sun on the garden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you seen the sun yourself on the garden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me my great-coat; I’ll take a little turn.  Has the man brushed it?  Did you see the man brush it yourself?  What do you mean by saying he has brushed it, when you didn’t see him?  Let me look at the tails.  If there’s a speck of dust on the tails, I’ll turn the man off!—­Help me on with it.”

Louisa helped him on with his coat, and gave him his hat.  He went out irritably.  The coat was a large one (it had belonged to his father); the hat was a large one (it was a misfit purchased as a bargain by himself).  He was submerged in his hat and coat; he looked singularly small, and frail, and miserable, as he slowly wended his way, in the wintry sunlight, down the garden walk.  The path sloped gently from the back of the house to the water side, from which it was parted by a low wooden fence.  After pacing backward and forward slowly for some little time, he stopped at the lower extremity of the garden, and, leaning on the fen ce, looked down listlessly at the smooth flow of the river.

His thoughts still ran on the subject of his first fretful question to Louisa—­he was still brooding over the circumstances under which his wife had left the cottage that morning, and over the want of consideration toward himself implied in the manner of her departure.  The longer he thought of his grievance, the more acutely he resented it.  He was capable of great tenderness of feeling where any injury to his sense of his own importance was concerned.  His head drooped little by little on his arms, as they rested on the fence, and, in the deep sincerity of his mortification, he sighed bitterly.

The sigh was answered by a voice close at his side.

“You were happier with me, sir,” said the voice, in accents of tender regret.

He looked up with a scream—­literally, with a scream—­and confronted Mrs. Lecount.

Was it the specter of the woman, or the woman herself?  Her hair was white; her face had fallen away; her eyes looked out large, bright, and haggard over her hollow cheeks.  She was withered and old.  Her dress hung loose round her wasted figure; not a trace of its buxom autumnal beauty remained.  The quietly impenetrable resolution, the smoothly insinuating voice—­these were the only relics of the past which sickness and suffering had left in Mrs. Lecount.

“Compose yourself, Mr. Noel,” she said, gently.  “You have no cause to be alarmed at seeing me.  Your servant, when I inquired, said you were in the garden, and I came here to find you.  I have traced you out, sir, with no resentment against yourself, with no wish to distress you by so much as the shadow of a reproach.  I come here on what has been, and is still, the business of my life—­your service.”