was anxious to buy an estate in England, for which Barnard was trustee. It was a small one, but he fancied the situation and the house. The writings were prepared; and a solicitor was going out to have them executed, and to receive the money and make other arrangements, when Mr. Barnard conceived this idea of substituting me for the solicitor.
"You shall have your expenses there and back, and handsome ones, too, out of which you can squeeze a fortnight's keep. But you must be back within the month; no shirking, mind, for I am your warranty, and get well, too; make use of every hour; for if you lose this chance, we can't promise you another."
He has gone. A case with the papers and a letter of instruction has just come up. A clerk who brought them counted down fifty golden sovereigns. It is a dream. Dora danced round and kissed one of them. If she were only coming, my love and guardian angel; but we cannot compass that! It will be only for one month, and I shall come back to her happy and strong, and able to work for our children. Is it a dream? It is like a wish in a Fairy Tale. The express leaves to-night at eight. I shall sleep in London and go on to-morrow.
Wednesday, London, Charing Cross Hotel.—Bore the journey wonderfully, getting better absolutely. This is all hope dancing before my eyes. No ledger this morning—my heart is bounding within me. So curious this great desolate chamber, where a hundred people are taking breakfast. Could hear the screaming of the engine close by. My train, yes, in ten minutes. Delighful all this excitement. It is new life—a bright sunny day—the bustling crowds going by—the gay look of everything, and the pleasant journey all before me.
Chapter II.
Brussels, six p.m.—Such a day. Delicious sea—happy travellers—charming green fields, and that strange look of Ostend, the first foreign place I have ever seen. All red tiles and potsherds, it seemed to me, at a distance. The white quays and yellow houses. Then the trains through the pleasant Belgian country; the odd faces, and that singular custom of the guard coming in so mysteriously at the door, when the train is at full speed. What things I shall have to tell and amuse darling Dora, whose name makes my heart low, only this excitement prevents me thinking of anything dismal. I shall write a book of travels, make a little money, and give it all to her. But this amazing and delicious capital! It is awe-striking—so solid and splendid—and the glorious cathedral! Such wealth, such gorgeousness to be in the world, which we do not dream of even. The trees in the streets, the people sitting out and taking coffee, the splendid carriages, and all with such a grand and noble air of stateliness. I have noted a thousand things to tell Dora when I return. I feel getting stronger every moment, and a quarter of an hour ago read an English paper, without finding the words swimming, and the paper rising up to my eyes. I think I shall go on to-night.
Friday, Cologne.—A long night in the great roomy carriages, and very comfortable. A little curtain to draw over the lamp, and the whole left to myself: so I might have been in my own room, yet did not get to sleep till nearly one o'clock; not so much from noise or novelty, as from my own thoughts, so much was coming back on me. This was the first time I had been away from home, from Dora; and now that I was at a distance, she, and all that she had passed, began to rise before me like pictures. I could see now—like a man walking back to get a good view of a picture—her sweet face in the centre, and what a deal I had gone through to win it for myself! Though she never shall know it, much of what I suffer now is owing to that six years' feverish anxiety. And I saved her from him. For a time I did feel some remorse, yet now I do not. It was all for a good end.
Let me think now, as an entertainment, of the first bright day on which I saw her. Some wealthy people, who lived in tolerable state, had "filled their house," as it is called, and had asked me down. I was reluctant to go. In these days—and not unpleasant days were they—how I lived in the book world, and very pleasant friends I had among them. For as Richard of Bury says, in words that sound like old church bells, "These are the masters that instruct us without rods; if you chide them they do not answer, if you neglect or ill-treat them they bear no malice. They are always cheerful, sweet-tempered, ready to talk and comfort us at any hour of night or day." For them I felt an affection—they seemed to me beautiful, with charming faces, and shall I own it?—some of the prettiest faces of nature when shown to me, appeared to
