was probable we
should leave on Saturday. Are you willing?"

"Quite willing."

"It is settled then. On Saturday evening we go home."

Go home! To their first home! To that new bridal nest, which, be it the
poorest dwelling on earth, seems--or should seem--holy, happy, and fair!
What a coming home it was! Better, she thought, that he had cast her
adrift, or torn himself from her and placed the wide world between them.
Rather any open separation than the mockery of such a union.

"Home!" she cried. "I will not go--I cannot. Oh, not home!"

"To a house, then--call it by what name you please. To your own
house, which we will merely _say_ is mine. Your comfort"--he stopped a
little--"must always be the first consideration of your husband."

"My husband!" she repeated, almost in a shriek--and the old fit of
fierce laughter was coming back.

At this moment Eulalie's curious eyes were seen turning towards the
little room. Nathanael moved so as to shield his wife from them. "Hush!"
he said, sorrowfully, even with a sort of pity--"hush, Agatha. We are
married. Between us two there must be, under all circumstances, honour
and silence."

His manner was so solemn, free from bitterness or anger, that Agatha's
passion was quelled. She was awed as by the sight of some dead face,
wronged grievously in life, but which now only revenges itself by the
hopelessness of its mute perpetual smile. She remained staring blankly
into the fire, plaiting and unplaiting the sash of her dress with
heedless fingers. Eulalie might peer safely.

"There was another thing," resumed Nathanael, "which, before telling
the rest of the household, I wished to say to you. I had business in
Weymouth to-morrow; and--if"--

"Well? I listen."

"If--I were to ride there to-night"--

"Go." A soft, quick word--a mere motion of the lips--and yet it was the
one word of doom.

After that, without saying more, Mr. Harper walked back slowly into the
drawing-room, and Agatha sat by the fireside alone.

She heard the rest talking--complaining--reasoning--heard one or two
persuasive calls for "Agatha"--but she never moved. Then came the
bell hastily pulled, and the old Squire's testy summons for "Mr. Locke
Harper's horse," and "was it a fine night, and the moon risen?" Then the
drawing-room door opened and closed. No--he was not gone--not without
saying adieu. He would surely pay his wife that deference. Outside the
wall she heard his foot ascending the stair