“Why, no; ain’t I dressed enough for you?  No gentleman dresses when he’s going to travel.”

She said no more.  The carriage came as Abel had ordered, a private conveyance to take them quite through to New York.  All the time before it came Kitty Dunham moved solemnly about the room, seeing that nothing was left.  The solemnity fretted Abel.

“What are you so sober about?” he asked impatiently.

“Because I am getting ready for a long journey,” she answered, tranquilly.

“Perhaps not so long,” he said, sharply—­“not if I choose to leave you behind.”

“But you won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you will want somebody, and I’m the only person in the world left to you.”

She spoke in the same sober way.  Abel knew perfectly well that she spoke the truth, but he had never thought of it before.  Was he then going so long a journey without a friend, unless she went with him?  Was she the only one left of all the world?

As his mind pondered the question his eye fell upon a newspaper of the day before, in which he saw his name.  He took it up mechanically, and read a paragraph praising him and his speech; foretelling “honor and troops of friends” for a young man who began his public career so brilliantly.

“There; hear this!” said he, as he read it aloud and looked at his companion.  “Troops of friends, do you see? and yet you talk of being my only dependence in the world!  Fie! fie!  Mrs. Delilah Jones.”

It was melancholy merriment.  He did not smile, and the woman’s face was quietly sober.

“For the present, then, Mr. Speaker and fellow-citizens,” said Abel Newt, waving his hand as he saw that every thing was ready, and that the carriage waited only for him and his companion, “I bid these scenes adieu!  For the present I terminate my brief engagement.  And you, my fellow-members, patterns of purity and pillars of truth, farewell!  Disinterested patriots, I leave you my blessing!  Pardon me that I prefer the climate of the Mediterranean to that of the District, and the smiles of my Kitty to the intelligent praises of my country.  Friends of my soul, farewell!  I kiss my finger tips!  Boo—­hoo!”

He made a mock bow, and smiled upon an imaginary audience.  Then offering his arm with grave ceremony to his companion as if a crowd had been looking on, he went down stairs.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

IN THE CITY.

It was a long journey.  They stopped at Baltimore, at Philadelphia, and pushed on toward New York.  While they were still upon the way Hope Wayne saw what she had been long expecting to see—­and saw it without a solitary regret.  Amy Waring was Amy Waring no longer; and Hope Wayne was the first who kissed Mrs. Lawrence Newt.  Even Mrs. Simcoe looked benignantly upon the bride; and Aunt Martha wept over her as over her own child.