as usual, unequal to the struggle.  At last it spent itself in vain against the massive brutishness of opposition it had itself developed, and the reaction came, and now daily stunned her into hopeless apathy and abject indifference.  Having lost the power of vexing, and beyond being really vexed by a being she so utterly despised as her husband, there was nothing left but pure passivity and inanition, into which she was rapidly declining.

Mr. Dinks kicked loudly and roared at the door, but Mrs. Dinks did not heed him.  She was sitting in her dingy wrapper, rocking, and pondering upon the conversation of the morning—­mechanically rocking, and thinking of the Christinas dinner at Uncle Lawrence’s.

CHAPTER LXXXII.

THE LOST IS FOUND.

It was a whim of Lawrence’s to give dinners; to have them good, and to ask only the people he wanted, and who he thought would enjoy themselves together.

“How much,” he said, quietly, as he conversed with Mrs. Bennet, while his guests were assembling, “Edward Wynne looks like your sister Martha!”

It was the first time Mrs. Bennet had heard her sister’s name mentioned by any stranger for years.  But Lawrence spoke as calmly and naturally as if Martha Darro had been the subject of their conversation.

“Poor Martha!” said Mrs. Bennet, sadly; “how mysterious it was!”

Her husband saw her as she spoke, and he was so struck by the mournfulness of her face that he came quietly over.

“What is it?” he said, gently.

“For my son who was dead is alive again.  He was lost and is found,” said Lawrence Newt, solemnly.

Mrs. Bennet looked troubled, startled, almost frightened.  The words were full of significance, the tone was not to be mistaken.  She looked at Lawrence Newt with incredulous eagerness.  He shook his head assentingly.

“Alive?” she gasped rather than asked.

“And well,” he continued.

Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in a silent prayer.  A light so sweet stole over her matronly face that Lawrence Newt did not fear to say,

“And near you; come with me!”

They left the room together; and Amy Waring, who knew why they went, followed her aunt and Lawrence from the room.

The three stopped at the door of Lawrence Newt’s study.

“Your sister is here,” said he; and Amy and he remained outside while Mrs. Bennet entered the room.

It was more than twenty years since the sisters had met, and they clasped each other silently and wept for a long time.

“Martha!”

“Lucia!”

It was all they said; and wept again quietly.

Aunt Martha was dressed in sober black.  Her face was very comely; for the hardness that came with a morbid and mistaken zeal was mellowed, and the sadness of experience softened it.

“I have lived not far from you, Lucia, all these long years.”