“He went abroad for many years.  Then he returned, and came sometimes to Pinewood.  His life was irregular.  I think he gambled, for he and your grandfather often had high words in the library about the money that he wanted.  But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place.  He rarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and he gradually fell into the habit you remember.  Yet he had the same ambition for you that he had had for your mother.  He treated me always with stately politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a young girl.  Hope,” said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, “that is all—­the end you yourself remember.”

“Yes,” replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, “my father went out upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and was drowned.  Mr. Gray’s boys found him.  My grandfather would not let me wear mourning for him.  I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon; and I did not care to wear black.  Aunty, I had seen him too little to love him like a father, you know.”

She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her head.

It was past midnight.  It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass.

Something yet remained to be said between those two women.  Each knew it—­neither dared to begin.

Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly, but in a low voice,

“And, aunty, the young man?”

Mrs. Simcoe took Hope’s face between her caressing hands.  She smoothed the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead.

“Aunty, the young man?” said Hope, in the same tone.

“Was Lawrence Newt,” answered Mrs. Simcoe.

—­It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs. Simcoe had pronounced.

Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot out upon her like a tongue of lightning.  At first she felt every nerve in her frame relaxed—­a mist clouded her eyes—­she had a weary sense of happiness, for she thought she was dying.  The mist passed.  She felt her cheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm.  Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her, weeping silently.

“Good-night, dearest aunty!” said Hope, as she rose and bent down to kiss her.

“My child!” said the older woman, in tones that trembled out of an aching heart.

Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door.  As she went she heard Mrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring sunset strain,

“Convince us first of unbelief,
   And freely then release;
 Fill every soul with sacred grief,
   And then with sacred peace.”

CHAPTER LXXVI.

A SOCIAL GLASS.