o gather
them at Northmoor, as soon as its lord and lady returned, nor had they
been able to escape from their Dolomite ravine till the beginning of May,
for the roads were always dangerous, often impassable, so that there had
been weeks when they were secluded from even the post, and had had
difficulties as to food and fire.

However, it had done them no harm, and was often looked back upon as,
metaphorically as well as literally, the brightest and whitest time in
their lives. Frank had walked and climbed both with Mrs. Bury and on his
own account, and had drunk in the wild glories of the mountain winter,
and the fantastic splendours of snow and ice on those wondrous peaks.
And, with that new joy and delight to be found in the queer wooden
cradle, his heart was free to bound as perhaps it had never done before,
in exulting thankfulness, as he looked up to those foretastes of the
Great White Throne.

Never had he had such a rest before from toil, care, and anxiety as in
those months in the dry, bracing air, and it was the universal remark
that Lord Northmoor came back years younger and twice the man he had been
before, with a spirit of cheerfulness and enterprise such as had always
been wanting; while as to his wife, she was less strong than before, but
there was a certain peaceful, yet exulting happiness about her, and her
face had gained wonderfully in sweetness and expression.

The child was a fine plump little fellow, old enough to laugh and respond
to loving faces and gestures. Mary had feared the sight might be painful
to Lady Adela, and was gratified to find her too true a baby-lover and
too generous a spirit not to worship him almost as devotedly as did
Constance.

Perhaps the heads of the family had never seen or participated in
anything like the domestic mirth and enjoyment of that fortnight's visit;
Bertha was with Lady Adela, and the intimacy and confidence in which
Frank and Mary had lived with Mrs. Bury had demolished many barriers of
shyness, and made them hosts who could be as one with their
guests--guests with whom the shadow of parting made the last sunshine
seem the more bright.

'I did not know what I was letting you in for,' said Bertha, in apology
to Mrs. Bury.

'My dear, I would not have been without the experience on any account. I
never saw such a refreshing pair of people.'

'Surely it must have been awfully slow--regular penal servitude!'

'You confuse absence of small talk with a