reached its second reading, ma'am; and there it met with
opposition."

"And fell through?"

"I suppose so--for the present. Its time will come, I hope; the time
for its essential provisions, I mean."

"Do you think Mr. Carlisle could have secured its passage?"

"From what I know and have heard of him, I have no doubt he could."

"His love is not very generous," remarked Mrs. Caxton.

"It never was, aunt Caxton. After I left London I had little hope of my
bill. I am not disappointed."

"My dear, are you weary to-night?"

"No ma'am! not particularly."

"I shall have to find some play-work for you to do. Your voice speaks
something like weariness."

"I do not feel it, aunt Caxton."

"Eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your decision and action
with respect to Mr. Carlisle?"

"Never, aunt Caxton. How can you ask me?"

"I did not know but you might feel weariness now at your long stay in
Plassy and the prospect of a continued life here."

Eleanor put down her work, came to Mrs. Caxton, kneeled down and put
her arms about her; kissing her with kisses that certainly carried
conviction with them.

"It is the most wicked word I ever heard you say, aunt Caxton. I love
Plassy beyond all places in the world, that I have ever been in. No
part of my life has been so pleasant as the part spent here. If I am
weary, I sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off from its
natural duties and stranded somehow, all alone; but that is an
unbelieving thought, and I do not give it harbour at all. I am very
content--very happy."

Mrs. Caxton brought her hand tenderly down the side of the smooth cheek
before her, and her eyes grew somewhat misty. But that was a rare
occurrence, and the exhibition of it immediately dismissed. She kissed
Eleanor and returned to her ordinary manner.

"Talking about stranded lives," she said; "to take another subject, you
must forgive me for that one, dear--I think of Mr. Rhys very often."

"His life is not stranded," said Eleanor; "it is under full sail."

"He is alone, though."

"I do not believe he feels alone, aunt Caxton."

"I do not know," said Mrs. Caxton. "A man of a sensitive nature must
feel, I should think, in his circumstances, that he has put an immense
distance between himself and all whom he loves."

"But I thought he had almost no family relations left?"

"Did it never occur to you," said Mrs. Caxton, "when you used to see
him here, that there was someb