The lady whose advertisement she had answered, apparently attracted by her musical professions, replied immediately, and, the reference to Mrs. Leighton being satisfactory, she was shortly engaged at a fair salary.

Then Bluebell, writing the account to Canada, could not refrain from slipping in a private scrap to her mother, on which, in the strictest confidence, she acknowledged her wedded name.  This circumstance, however, she did not mention to Harry when he returned on two days’ leave, knowing he would be sceptical as to Mrs. Leigh’s power of secrecy.

Of course he was relieved that she had an asylum provided, and equally, of course, raged inwardly at his wife’s having to support herself in her maiden name.  He was the more remorseful as Bluebell made no further allusion to it, and seemed more occupied with making the most of his last days.

But he only called himself a confounded rascal, and trusted things would come right in the end.

Bluebell was to remain one more night at the cottage after her husband left.  Her wardrobe, though slender, was new, as it consisted of what Harry had bought at Liverpool.  None of it was marked, as she remembered with satisfaction; so there was nothing to betray her but her wedding-ring.  She removed and suspended it round her neck on a piece of ribbon.  The miniature of Theodore Leigh, which had not been forgotten the day she eloped, was also carefully secreted in a trunk.

The bill was paid, the fly at the door.  One tender parting only remained; this was with Archie, who had sprung into it after her, for he and Bluebell had become inseparable.  They could scarcely drag him away, and she buried her face a minute in his rough coat with almost equal regret.

“Would you like to keep him, ma’am?” said the carpenter’s wife.

“I cannot now, but when Mr. Dutton comes back, and we are settled, will you let me have him?”

“Ah, well,” said the woman, half disappointed, for she did not care for Archie, “ye’ll have forgotten all about it by then.”

CHAPTER XXXV.

A DISCOVERY.

  There woman’s voice flows forth in song,
    Or childhood’s tale is told;
  Or lips move tunefully along
    Some glorious page of old. 
                              —­Hemans.

Bluebell was settled in her new abode, about fifteen miles from London:  and certainly few governesses have the luck to drop into a more sunshiny home.  Only two little girls, pleasantly disposed; no banishment to the school-room.  They all mingled sociably together after lessons were over,—­walked, drove in an Irish car, or played croquet and gardened as the spring advanced.