to him, if it would not trouble Hal too much.  He feared that it would be a long time ere he would be again situated amongst such pleasant surroundings, “and they are, as you well know, so much needed by an artist,” he said.  I do wonder what the man thought.  Hal and Mary had not known Miss Harris’ story, but Louis had read the letter to Hal, and his perfidy was apparent to all.  No word had been said, however, and I presume he (not learning about the letters) thought Hal still a good friend, which was in fact the case.  Hal said: 

“I would not lose sight of him for the world.  Emily, his hand was one of those which led me across the bridge of sighs when my art was coming to life, and I shall help him.  He may yet need more than we know.”

“We can afford to pity him, but what about his wife, Hal?”

“His wife I intend to see.  Let us hope he will yet prove of some assistance to her.”

“Good brother! blessed brother!  I have felt so angry with him, Hal, but I will try to be good.  Of course Mary will be with you.”

“She thinks he needs a little punishment, but I tell her to be patient, and to let the days tell us their story.”

“Amen,” said the voice of our Clara, who was always in the right place, “and may we not hope for all the suffering ones.  There are bruised hearts all around us.  Let the precious nutriment of our love and care fall on them as the dew, calling forth tender blossoms, whose perfume may mingle with their lives.  Wisdom and strength, my Emily, will help us to these things, and the prayer of England’s church be not so sadly true.”

It was a relief to us all, and we could take long breaths now that Mr. Benton had gone, and mysteries solved had opened before us a vista of quiet days, into which our feet would gladly turn.  We had to talk him over thoroughly, and I was glad to be able to say at last: 

“Peace to his memory; let him rest.”

The letter we expected from the sweet girl-woman came, and we heard each week of her and her unrewarded search going on.  At last, when out from the snows blue violets sprang, there came a letter, saying,

“It is done.  I found him looking at a lovely picture, one of his own.  It was a fancy sketch, but the face, eyes and hair, those of Mrs. Desmonde, I know.  He had clothed her in exquisitely lovely apparel, and she was looking out over a waste of waters, but I cannot describe it justly.  If her son were here, he would secure it at any price.  I touched his shoulder; he turned, and with the strangest look in his eyes.  He sought even then to avoid me, thinking probably I might prove a tempest in a teapot, and make a terrible scene.  I said quietly, ’I am only desirious of two hours’ conversation with you;’ introduced Mrs. Chadwick to him as to a friend, and invited him to call; gave him my card and turned away, naming an hour the ensuing day; for I knew he would come.  My manner disarming him,