ad she not said yes?

Next morning the last farewells had to be said--the last look taken at
the old home. Night found father and son far on their way to New York,
and Maurice's eagerness all renewed by this fresh start upon his quest.

There was little of novelty in the journey or the voyage. There were the
usual incidents of winter travelling--the hot, stifling car--the snowy
country stretching out mile after mile from morning till night--the
hotels, which seemed strangely comfortless for an invalid--and then the
great city with its noise and bustle, and the steamer where they had
nothing to do but to wait.

And, at last, there was England. There was the Mersey and Liverpool,
looking, as they came in, much as if the accumulated dirt of the three
kingdoms had been bestowed there, but brightening up into a different
aspect when they had fairly landed and left the docks behind them. For
it was a lovely March day--only the second or third of the month it is
true,--and winter, which they had left in full possession in Canada,
seemed to be over here, and the warm sunny air so invigorated Mr. Leigh
that he would not hear Maurice's proposal to rest until next day, but
insisted on setting out at once for Norfolk.

As they drove to the railway they passed the jeweller's shop where
Maurice had bought Lucia's ring. Alas! it still lay in his pocket, where
he had carried it ever since that day--when would it find its
destination? He was not going to be disheartened now, however. He was
glad of the little disturbance to his thoughts of having to take tickets
and see his father comfortably placed, and at the very last moment he
was just able to seize upon a _Times_, and set himself to reading it as
if he had never been out of England.

CHAPTER IX.

Maurice had telegraphed from Liverpool, and the old-fashioned carriage
from Hunsdon met them at the last railway station. It was near sunset,
and under a clear sky the soft rich green of the grass gleamed out with
the brightness of spring. They soon turned into the park, and the house
itself began to be visible through the budding, but still leafless,
trees. Both father and son were silent. To the one, every foot of the
road they traversed was haunted by the memories of thirty years ago; to
the other, this coming home was a step towards the fulfilment of his
hopes. They followed their own meditations, glad or sorrowful, until the
last curve was turned, and they stopped before