d
her last upon Margaret O'Mara's anxious devoted face, softly framed in
her simple widow's bonnet; when she had realised that her somewhat
original rest-cure had really safely commenced, and that she was leaving,
not only her worries, but her very identity behind her--Lady Ingleby had
leaned back with closed eyes in a corner of her reserved compartment, and
given herself up to quiet retrospection.

The face, in repose, was sad--a quiet sadness, as of regret which held no
bitterness. The cheek, upon which the dark fringe of lashes rested, was
white and thin having lost the tint and contour of perfect health. But,
every now and then, during those hours of retrospection, the wistful
droop of the sweet expressive mouth curved into a smile, and a dimple
peeped out unexpectedly, giving a look of youthfulness to the tired
face.

When London and, its suburbs were completely left behind, and the summer
sunshine blazed through the window from the clear blue of a radiant June
sky, Lady Ingleby leaned forward, watching the rapid unfolding of country
lanes and hedges; wide commons, golden with gorse; fir woods, carpeted
with blue-bells; mossy banks, overhung with wild roses, honeysuckle, and
traveller's-joy; the indescribable greenness and soft fragrance of
England in early summer; and, as she watched, a responsive light shone in
her sweet grey eyes. The drear sadness of autumn, the deadness of winter,
the chill uncertainty of spring--all these were over and gone. "Flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come," murmurs
the lover of Canticles; and in Myra Ingleby's sad heart there blossomed
timidly, flowers of hope; vague promise of future joy, which life might
yet hold in store. A blackbird in the hawthorn, trilled gaily; and Myra
softly sang, to an air of Garth Dalmain's, the "Blackbird's Song."

"Wake, wake,
Sad heart!
Rise up, and sing!
On God's fair earth, 'mid blossoms blue.
Fresh hope must ever spring.
There is no room for sad despair,
When heaven's love is everywhere."

Then, as the train sped onward through Wiltshire, Somerset, and Devon,
Lady Ingleby felt the mantle of her despondence slipping from her, and
reviewed the past, much as a prisoner might glance back into his dark
narrow cell, from the sunlight of the open door, as he stood at last on
the threshold of liberty.

Seven months h