“Well, John, the Levys cannot touch me.  The Harlows have been in Yorkshire before the Romans came and my family is not only old, it is noble, or John Hatton would not have married me.”

“John Hatton would have married you if you had been a beggar-maid.  There is no woman in the world to him, but his own sweet Jane.”  Then Jane took his hands and kissed them, and there was a few moments of most eloquent silence—­a silence just touched with happy tears.

John spoke first.  “Jane, my darling,” he said, “do you think a few months in the south would do you good?  If you could lie out in the warm breeze and the sunshine—­if you were free of all these little social worries—­if you took your mother with you—­if you——­”

“John, my dear one, I have an invitation from Lady Harlow to spend a few weeks with her.  Surrey is much warmer than Yorkshire.  I might go there.”

“Yes,” answered John, but his voice was reluctant and dissenting, and in a few moments he said, “There is little Martha—­could you take her with you?”

“Oh dear me!  What would be the good of my going away to rest, if I drag a child with me?  You know Martha is spoiled and wilful.”

“Is she?  I am sorry to hear that.  She would, however, have her maid, and she is now nearly three years old.”

“It would be useless for me to go away, unless I go alone.  I suggested Surrey because I thought you could come to see me every Saturday.”

The little compliment pleased John, and he answered, “You shall do just as you wish, darling!  I would give up everything to see you look as you used to look.”

“You are always harping on that one string, John.  It is only four years since we were married.  Have I become an old woman in four years?”

“No, but you have become a sick woman.  I want you to be well and strong.”

Then she lay back on her pillows, and as she closed her eyes some quick, hot tears were on her white face, and John kissed them away, and with a troubled heart, uncertain and unhappy, he bid her good night.

Nothing in the interview had comforted or enlightened him, but there was that measure of the Divine spirit in John Hatton, which enabled him to rise above what he could not go through.  He had found even from his boyhood that for the chasms of life wings had been provided and that he could mount heaven-high by such help and bring back strength for every hour of need.  And he was comforted by the word that came to him, and he fell asleep to the little antiphony he held with his own soul: 

    O Lord how happy is the time—­

       * * * * *
When from my weariness I climb,
  Close to thy tender breast.

* * * * *

    For there abides a peace of Thine,
      Man did not make, and cannot mar.

* * * * *