hild, I know it; and I dare not say how I feel it; I dare not thank
you as I ought. In truth it is a terrible calamity. All its consequences
I cannot yet anticipate; but they may be worse than anybody suspects, or
than I like to glance at. It is a deep and apparently an irremediable
misfortune. I cannot but feel it keenly; and I feel it for my wife more
than for myself. Now and then, something like a glimpse of consolation
shows itself--that it has not been brought on by any fault of mine; and
that, humanly speaking, I have done nothing to deserve it."

"Mr. Cust used to tell us that however dark a misfortune might be,
however hopeless even, there was sure to be a way of looking at it, by
which we might see that it might have been darker," observed Lucy.
"_This_ would have been darker for you, had it proved to be Frederick
Massingbird, instead of John; very sadly darker for Mrs. Verner."

"Ay; so far I cannot be too thankful," replied Lionel. The remembrance
flashed over him of his wife's words that day--in her temper--she wished
it had been Frederick. It appeared to be a wish that she had already
thrown out frequently; not so much that she did wish it, as to annoy
him.

"Mr. Cust used to tell us another thing," resumed Lucy, breaking the
silence: "that these apparently hopeless misfortunes sometimes turn out
to be great benefits in the end. Who knows but in a short time, through
some magic or other, you and Mrs. Verner may be back at Verner's Pride?
Would not that be happiness?"

"I don't know about happiness, Lucy; sometimes I feel tired of
everything," he wearily answered. "As if I should like to run away for
ever, and be at rest. My life at Verner's Pride was not a bed of
rose-leaves."

He heard his mother's voice in the ante-room, and went forward to open
the door for her. Lady Verner came in, followed by Jan. Jan was going to
dine there; and Jan was actually in orthodox dinner costume. Decima had
invited him, and Decima had told him to be sure to dress himself; that
she wanted to make a little festival of the evening to welcome Lionel
and his wife. So Jan remembered, and appeared in black. But the gloss of
the whole was taken off by Jan having his shirt fastened down the front
with pins, where the buttons ought to be. Brassy-looking, ugly, bent
pins, as big as skewers, stuck in horizontally.

"Is that a new fashion coming in, Jan?" asked Lady Verner, pointing with
some asperity to the pins.

"It's to be ho