by myself once more, and knowing all the while that--" and
Sabina stopped; she did not like to remind Marie of the painful
contrast between them.

"To the Rhine? Yes. And I shall see the beautiful old world, the old
vineyards, and castles, and hills, which he used to tell me of--taught
me to read of in those sweet, sweet books of Longfellow's! So gentle,
and pure, and calm--so unlike me!"

"Yes, we will see them; and perhaps--"

Marie looked up at her, guessing her thoughts, and blushed scarlet.

"You, too, think then, that--that--" she could not finish her
sentence.

Sabina stooped over her, and the two beautiful mouths met.

"There, darling, we need say nothing. We are both women, and can talk
without words."

"Then you think there is hope!"

"Hope? Do you fancy that he is gone so very far? or that if he were, I
could not hunt him out? Have I wandered half round the world alone for
nothing?"

"No, but hope--hope that--"

"Not hope, but certainty; if some one I know had but courage."

"Courage--to do what!"

"To trust him utterly."

Marie covered her face with her hands, and shuddered in every limb.

"You know my story. Did I gain or lose by telling my Claude all?"

"I will!" she cried, looking up pale but firm. "I will!" and she
looked steadfastly into the mirror over the chimney-piece, as if
trying to court the reappearance of that ugly vision which haunted it,
and so to nerve herself to the utmost, and face the whole truth.

In little more than a fortnight, Sabina and Marie, with maid and
courier (for Marie was rich now), were away in the old Antwerpen.
And Claude was rolling down to Southampton by rail, with Campbell,
Scoutbush, and last, but not least, the faithful Bowie; who had under
his charge what he described to the puzzled railway-guard as "goads
and cleiks, and pirns and creels, and beuks and heuks, enough for a'
the cods o' Neufundland."

CHAPTER XIII.

L'HOMME INCOMPRIS.

Elsley went on, between improved health and the fear of Tom Thurnall,
a good deal better for the next month. He began to look forward to
Valencia's visit with equanimity, and, at last, with interest; and was
rather pleased than otherwise when, in the last week of July, a fly
drove up to the gate of old Penalva Court, and he handed out therefrom
Valencia, and Valencia's maid.

Lucia had discovered that the wind was east, and that she was afraid
to go to the gate for fear of catching cold; her real purpos