of tremors and agitations was past. They were secure in each other's love, secure in the consent and approval of those who loved them. Henceforward their lives were to sail calmly on a summer sea.
How different was this newer and purer love of his from the old passion, with its alternations of fever and remorse! How different his simple-minded sweetheart of to-day—gentle, unselfish, conscientious, religious—from the woman who had been all exaction and caprice; insatiable in her desire for admiration, self-indulgent, luxurious, caring not a jot how the world outside her own boudoir went on, who suffered or who was glad, provided her wishes were gratified and her vanity fed!
It was dinner-time when Bothwell arrived at Penmorval, and the dinner-hour was of all seasons the most melancholy, now that the master of the house was a helpless invalid on the upper floor, perhaps never again to enter that stately dining-hall, where the butler insisted upon serving Bothwell's dinner in just as slow and ceremonial a manner as if family and guests had been assembled in full force.
Vainly did Bothwell plead against this ceremony.
"I wish you would ask them to cook me a chop, Stodden," he said. "A chop and a potato would be ample. I hate a long dinner at any time, but most especially when I am to eat it alone. You need not take so much trouble as you do about me."
But Stodden ascribed all such speeches to overweening modesty on Mr. Grahame's part. The poor young man knew that he was in somewise an interloper; and he did not wish to give trouble. It was a very proper feeling on his part; and Stodden was resolved that he should not be a loser by his modesty. Stodden gave him an even handsomer dinner on the following day, and when remonstrated with smiled the smile of incredulity.
"Lor, sir, you know you like a good dinner," he said. "You mayn't wish to give trouble; but you must like a good dinner. We all like a good dinner. It's human nature."
After this Bothwell felt that remonstrance was useless.
Mrs. Wyllard dined with her invalid husband. She rarely left him except when he was sleeping under the influence of morphia, or when he asked to be alone. There were hours in his long and weary day in which even his wife's presence seemed a burden to him, and when he preferred to fight his battle in solitude.
Upon this particular evening of Bothwell's return from Trevena his cousin joined him at the dinner-table, an unexpected pleasure.
"I want to hear all your news, Bothwell," she said. "Julian is asleep, and I have half an hour free."
