e would again wish to
have a few minutes more to herself.

At length, however, she certainly did hear him. There was the quick
rattle of the chaise over the gravel, becoming quicker and quicker,
till the vehicle stopped with that kind of plunge which is made by no
other animal than a post-horse, and by him only at his arrival at the
end of a stage. Then the steps were let down with a crash--she would
not go to the window, or she might have seen him; she longed to do so,
but it appeared so undignified. She sat quite still in her chair; but
she heard his quick step at the hail door; she was sure--she could have
sworn to his step--and then she heard the untying of cords, and pulling
down of luggage. Lord Ballindine was again in the house, and the
dearest wish of her heart was accomplished.

She felt that she was trembling. She had not yet made up her mind how
she would receive him--what she would first say to him--and certainly
she had no time to do so now. She got up, and looked in her
aunt's pier-glass. It was more a movement of instinct than one of
premeditation; but she thought she had never seen herself look so
wretchedly. She had, however, but little time, either for regret or
improvement on that score, for there were footsteps in the corridor. He
couldn't have stayed a moment to speak to anyone downstairs--however,
there he certainly was; she heard Griffiths' voice in the passage,
"This way, my lord--in my lady's boudoir;" and then the door opened,
and in a moment she was in her lover's arms.

"My own Fanny!--once more my own!"

"Oh, Frank! dear Frank!"

Lord Ballindine was only ten minutes late in coming down to dinner,
and Miss Wyndham not about half an hour, which should be considered as
showing great moderation on her part. For, of course, Frank kept her
talking a great deal longer than he should have done; and then she not
only had to dress, but to go through many processes with her eyes,
to obliterate the trace of tears. She was, however, successful, for
she looked very beautiful when she came down, and so dignified, so
composed, so quiet in her happiness, and yet so very happy in her
quietness. Fanny was anything but a hypocrite; she had hardly a taint
of hypocrisy in her composition, but her looks seldom betrayed her
feelings. There was a majesty of beauty about her, a look of serenity
in her demeanour, which in public made her appear superior to all
emotion.

Frank seemed to be much less at his ease