He went out as soon as he had received that letter, and did not return until past midnight.  Netta awaited him in an agony of terror lest he should return no more.

He gave Netta ten pounds and told her on no account to disclose her real name, or give a clue to his having been with her in those lodgings, if she should see Rowland.

‘But you will be back soon?’ said poor Netta.

’In a few days I hope, or else I will send for you.  I must leave to-morrow morning at daybreak.’

A few weeks ago and neither husband nor wife would have cared how long the separation might be, now it seemed death for each to part.

Howel kissed his child again and again as she lay sleeping in her dingy bed, and held Netta long in his arms.  The only human being who really loved him!  Him, weak, wild, sinful, godless! yet with one divine spark rekindling in his breast—­the spark of human love.

He laid his wife, fainting, by the side of her child on the bed, bathed her temples with water until he saw that she would revive, and then rushed out into the dirty streets, under the misty, murky morning sky, a reckless and miserable man.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE ACCOUNTANT.

‘I never shall get through these accounts!’ is the soliloquy of Miss Gwynne, to whom we return with much pleasure, on my part, at least, after a separation of six years.

She is seated in a gloomy but comfortable dining-room, in a house situated in one of the squares at the East End of London.  We left her in her large, airy, country home, looking out upon a beautiful view of hill and valley—­we find her in a close, dark square, with nothing to enliven the scene without but a few dingy shrubs, a row of tall gaunt houses, and a smoke-discoloured, soot-filled atmosphere.  We left her unhappy and discontented—­we find her happy and contented.  We left her with a mind harassed by uncertain plans, disappointed hopes, and humbled pride—­we find her with a mind strengthened by good purposes, holy aspirations, and prayers for humility.  Still, we left her and find her Winifred Gwynne.  She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.

Reader, be not hasty to pronounce upon the suddenness of these changes.  Six years spent principally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless woman in the world, provided she had a heart.  And Freda has not only a heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.

She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of papers covered with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools, which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses, without ornament or extraneous adornment.  She is somewhat paler and thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.