we go home a while?"

Gabriel shifted his feet, and turned the latch of the shutter round
and round.

"No," he replied; "I think not;" I mean, if you feel you want to see
Constance, go, Emilia, only don't leave me too long. I had rather
stay here. I have been thinking it over of late, and I see no reason
why I should ever return to England."

"But, dearest one," said I, "your father!"

"I have thought of that. I long to see him, and Jane, too. You go
home, Emilia, and bring them back with you. We four can live out
here in Italy forever, live and die here."

"But Constance?" said I, then.

There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round and
round.

"Oh, Constance," said he; "yes, it's hard on Constance. She will
have to live with her mother and your step-uncle, I suppose."

"No," I replied; "I should never allow that. But we can arrange
about Constance when we see her; we can talk it over together. I
cannot go without you, Gabriel. There is no reason why we should
stay there long,--only come with me you must."

He held out for some days, but in the end I conquered. We passed
through Florence on the way, and there beside my mother's grave I
put forth the first, the only prayer I ever made,--a wordless
yearning towards the Inconceivable, a prayer for strength and the
Light of Truth.

* * * * *

We reached Graysmill on the nineteenth of September. My impatience
was so great that, in spite of Gabriel's displeasure at what he
called my rashness, I would not stay in London on the way, but we
travelled straight down, reaching Fletcher's Hall at midnight.

Aunt Caroline was down to receive us, for I had sent a telegram from
Dover; upstairs, my dear old woman was sitting up in bed with sweet,
wrinkled smiles beneath her frilled night-cap. I was very glad to be
home again; my heart felt warm.

I sent Aunt Caroline to bed, much against her will, and then Gabriel
and I sat down to drink the tea he had wished for, beside the fire
in the breakfast-room. Gabriel was very white, his eyes shone all
too brightly; again and again I saw him put his hand to his brow, a
trick he had when he was nervous.

"Dear," said I, "don't drink so much tea; it's very bad for you, you
will never sleep tonight."

"No," said he; "I am sure I couldn't sleep anyway. I think I shan't
stay here, Emilia, if you don't mind. I feel very impatient to see
my father; the night is fine, I shall walk