t trouble
Hal too much. He feared that it would be a long time ere he would be
again situated amongst such pleasant surroundings, "and they are, as you
well know, so much needed by an artist," he said. I do wonder what the
man thought. Hal and Mary had not known Miss Harris' story, but Louis
had read the letter to Hal, and his perfidy was apparent to all. No word
had been said, however, and I presume he (not learning about the
letters) thought Hal still a good friend, which was in fact the case.
Hal said:

"I would not lose sight of him for the world. Emily, his hand was one of
those which led me across the bridge of sighs when my art was coming to
life, and I shall help him. He may yet need more than we know."

"We can afford to pity him, but what about his wife, Hal?"

"His wife I intend to see. Let us hope he will yet prove of some
assistance to her."

"Good brother! blessed brother! I have felt so angry with him, Hal, but
I will try to be good. Of course Mary will be with you."

"She thinks he needs a little punishment, but I tell her to be patient,
and to let the days tell us their story."

"Amen," said the voice of our Clara, who was always in the right place,
"and may we not hope for all the suffering ones. There are bruised
hearts all around us. Let the precious nutriment of our love and care
fall on them as the dew, calling forth tender blossoms, whose perfume
may mingle with their lives. Wisdom and strength, my Emily, will help us
to these things, and the prayer of England's church be not so sadly
true."

It was a relief to us all, and we could take long breaths now that Mr.
Benton had gone, and mysteries solved had opened before us a vista of
quiet days, into which our feet would gladly turn. We had to talk him
over thoroughly, and I was glad to be able to say at last:

"Peace to his memory; let him rest."

The letter we expected from the sweet girl-woman came, and we heard each
week of her and her unrewarded search going on. At last, when out from
the snows blue violets sprang, there came a letter, saying,

"It is done. I found him looking at a lovely picture, one of his own. It
was a fancy sketch, but the face, eyes and hair, those of Mrs. Desmonde,
I know. He had clothed her in exquisitely lovely apparel, and she was
looking out over a waste of waters, but I cannot describe it justly. If
her son were here, he would secure it at any price. I touched his
shoulder; he turned, and with the stranges