“A wife makes home heaven, John,” he never tired of writing.  “I wonder often why Heaven has blessed me so greatly.  My wife is—­well, I worship her—­she is a proud woman, calm, fair, and lovely as a saint.  You will never know how much I love her until you have seen her.  She fills the old manor-house with sunshine and music.  I love to hear the gentle sound of her voice, sweet and low as the sound of a lute—­the frou-frou of her dress as she moves about.  I am even more in love with her than when I married her, and I should not have thought that possible.  Make haste home, John, my dear old friend; even my happy home is incomplete without you.  Come and share its brightness with me.”

He wrote innumerable directions for my journey.  The nearest railway station to Dutton Manor was at Vale Royal, a pretty little town about three miles from the house.  If I would let him know by what train I should reach Vale Royal, he would be at the station to meet me.  And he said—­Heaven bless his dear, loving heart—­that he was looking forward to it with untold happiness.

“When I think of seeing Frances and you together,” he said, “I feel like a school-boy out for a holiday.  I will count the hours, John, until you come.”

I had to go to London on business, and while there it was impossible to resist the temptation of running on to Brighton.  I loved the place so well, and I had not seen it for so long.  I wanted to stand once more on the Chain Pier, and think of my lost heaven.  How vividly it all came back to me—­that terrible tragedy, although more than three years had passed since it happened.  There was the corner where I had sat in the thick, soft shadows; there was the railing against which she leaned when she threw the little bundle in the water.

I remembered the fitful light, the wash of the waves round the pier, the beautiful, desperate face, and the voice that had wailed:  “If I dare! oh, my God, if I dare!”

I went to see the little grave.  The thick green grass which covered is was studded with white daisies, the golden letters on the white cross seemed to burn in the sunlight; “Marah.  Found drowned.”  I had been to the other end of the world, but no one had been to shed a tear over the little grave.

CHAPTER V.

The face of an old friend is good to see after a long absence.  Tears filled my eyes when the sunny blue ones looked into them, and the handsome face, quivering with emotion, smiled into mine.  I was glad to feel once more the clasp of that honest hand.

“Ah, Lance,” I cried, “I would travel twice as far for one hour with you!”

I shall never forget that pretty station at Vale Royal.  A beautiful brawling river ran close by, spanned by an old-fashioned rustic bridge; three huge chestnut trees, now in full flower, seemed to shade the whole place.

“A pretty spot,” said proud, happy Lance; “but wait till you see Dutton!  I tell Frances that I am quite sure it is the original garden of Paradise!”