To face it with that inevitable suppression of myself which I knew it would demand from me.  I had parted with the worst bitterness of the past, but not with my heart’s remembrance of the sorrow and the tenderness of that memorable time.  I had not ceased to feel the one irreparable disappointment of my life—­I had only learnt to bear it.  Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when the ship bore me away, and I looked my last at England.  Laura Fairlie was in all my thoughts when the ship brought me back, and the morning light showed the friendly shore in view.

My pen traces the old letters as my heart goes back to the old love.  I write of her as Laura Fairlie still.  It is hard to think of her, it is hard to speak of her, by her husband’s name.

There are no more words of explanation to add on my appearance for the second time in these pages.  This narrative, if I have the strength and the courage to write it, may now go on.

My first anxieties and first hopes when the morning came centred in my mother and my sister.  I felt the necessity of preparing them for the joy and surprise of my return, after an absence during which it had been impossible for them to receive any tidings of me for months past.  Early in the morning I sent a letter to the Hampstead Cottage, and followed it myself in an hour’s time.

When the first meeting was over, when our quiet and composure of other days began gradually to return to us, I saw something in my mother’s face which told me that a secret oppression lay heavy on her heart.  There was more than love—­there was sorrow in the anxious eyes that looked on me so tenderly—­there was pity in the kind hand that slowly and fondly strengthened its hold on mine.  We had no concealments from each other.  She knew how the hope of my life had been wrecked—­she knew why I had left her.  It was on my lips to ask as composedly as I could if any letter had come for me from Miss Halcombe, if there was any news of her sister that I might hear.  But when I looked in my mother’s face I lost courage to put the question even in that guarded form.  I could only say, doubtingly and restrainedly—­

“You have something to tell me.”

My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a word of explanation—­rose and left the room.

My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my neck.  Those fond arms trembled—­the tears flowed fast over the faithful loving face.

“Walter!” she whispered, “my own darling! my heart is heavy for you.  Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!”

My head sank on her bosom.  She had said all in saying those words.

* * * * * * * * * *

It was the morning of the third day since my return—­the morning of the sixteenth of October.

I had remained with them at the cottage—­I had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of my return to them as it was embittered to me.  I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life resignedly—­to let my great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not in despair.  It was useless and hopeless.  No tears soothed my aching eyes, no relief came to me from my sister’s sympathy or my mother’s love.