r.

When the married pair took leave, Walter gave his sister a great hug,
but had no perception of his office of handing her downstairs; and it
was Fitzjocelyn who gave her his arm, and put her into the carriage,
with an augury that the weather would be beautiful when once they had
left the fog in London.

She smiled dreamily, and repeated, 'beautiful,' as though all were so
beautiful already to her that she did not so much as perceive the fog.

James pressed his hand, saying, 'I am glad you are to be the one to be
happy next.'

'You do not look so,' said Clara, earnestly.

The two sisters had come partly downstairs, but their London habits had
restrained them from following to the street-door, as Clara had done;
and now they had rushed up again, while Clara, with one foot on the
staircase, looked in her cousin's face, as he tried to smile in answer,
and repeated, 'Louis, I hoped you were quite happy.'

'I am,' said Louis, quickly.

'Then why do you look so grave and uneasy?'

'Louis!' said an entreating voice above, and there stood Mary--'Pray
say nothing, but call a cab for me, please. No, I am not ill--indeed,
I am not--but I cannot stay!'

'You look ill! It has been too much for you! Clara, take her--let her
lie down quietly,' cried Louis, springing to her side.

'Oh no, thank you-no,' said Mary, decidedly, though very low; 'I told
Lady Conway that I could not stay. I settled it with Aunt Melicent.'

'That aunt of yours--'

'Hush! No, it is for my own sake--my own doing. I cannot bear it any
longer! Please let me go!'

'Then I will take you. I saw the brougham waiting. We will go quietly
together.'

'No, that must not be.'

'I was thoughtless in urging you to come. The turmoil has been too
much. My poor Mary! That is what comes of doing what I like instead
of what you like. Why don't you always have your own way? Let me
come; nay, if you will not, at least let Clara go with you, and come
back.'

Mary roused herself at last to speak, as she moved downstairs--'You
need not think of me; there is nothing the matter with me. I promised
Aunt Melicent to come home. She is very kind--it is not that.'

'You must not tell me not to think. I shall come to inquire. I shall
be with you the first thing tomorrow.'

'Yes, you must come to-morrow,' said Mary, in a tone he could not
interpret, and a tight lingering grasp on his hand, as he put her into
his father's carriage.

He stood hesit