‘Then you do not quite hate me, Netta?’ he said, putting his arm round her neck, ‘I thought all the old love was gone.’

’No, no, Howel!  Dear, dear Howel!  I love you in my heart! but you are so changed—­so—­so—­you don’t care for my company now.  You never come home and play and sing as you used to do.  You never speak to Minette; you never speak to me except—­’

Here Netta leant her head on Howel’s knees, and began to sob.  He put his hand on her head, smoothed her hair, and finally raised her from the ground, and took her in his arms to his weak, wicked heart—­a heart not wholly depraved, because there was still in it love for his wife.

For a long time she clung to him; her arms round his neck, her cheek to his cheek, her beating heart to his bosom, as if she was afraid that the spell would be broken if once she let go.  Howel kissed her pale cheek, wiped those large black eyes, and comforted her as she had never hoped to be comforted again.  Vague thoughts entered his mind of the possibility of beginning life afresh—­of being a better husband and father—­of giving up his wild, sinful courses.  ’Shall the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots.’

‘I will do anything, Howel, darling—­anything you wish,’ suddenly murmured Netta, returning his caresses, ’only you will promise never to be unkind again.  I will beg, starve for you as long as you love me; but you know I am hot-tempered, and when you are cross I get angry; and then you are violent, and I am hard and sullen and wicked—­oh, so wicked!  I think I must have lived fifty years in the last five years, Howel, I feel so old and altered.  Don’t make me so hard-hearted again, Howel, bach, or I shall die, indeed I shall; I feel it now at my heart.’

Netta put her hand on her heart as she leant against Howel.  He raised her, and saw that she was of a deathly paleness.

‘Don’t be—­frightened—­I have—­it—­often—­only—­a spasm,’ she gasped, as frightened he went to the sideboard, and poured out some brandy into one of the tea cups, and putting a little water to it, gave it her to drink.

She soon revived, and recovering a little of her old colour again, put her arms round Howel, and thanked him for being so kind.  Howel was aware, for the first time for many years, that conscience is not a myth; his smote him.

‘Will you stay at home to-day, Howel?’ asked Netta.  ’I will write myself to your mother, if you will.’

’Yes, Netta, dear, I will.  Now, shall we carry the picture-book to Minette?’

’No; you must have your breakfast now, and I will make it.  Oh!  I am so happy.’

‘And you do not care for Dancy, Netta?’

‘No; I hate him.’

Howel kept his word, and stayed at home that one day with Netta and her child, and she wrote that day down on the tablets of her memory as the brightest spot in six years of trouble and distrust.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.