friend, in the house, and a man severe in morals, but candid in
religion, and an inexhaustible companion to them and their children.

And so, after that terrible storm, this pair pursued the even tenor of a
peaceful united life, till the olive-branches rising around them, and
the happy years gliding on, almost obliterated that one dark passage,
and made it seem a mere fantastical, incredible dream.

* * * * *

Mercy Vint and her child went home in the coach. It was empty at
starting, and, as Mrs. Gaunt had foretold, a great sense of desolation
fell upon her.

She leaned back, and the patient tears coursed steadily down her comely
cheeks.

At the first stage a passenger got down from the outside, and entered
the coach.

"What, George Neville!" said Mercy.

"The same," said he.

She expressed her surprise that he should be going her way.

"'T is strange," said he, "but to me most agreeable."

"And to me too, for that matter," said she.

Sir George observed her eyes were red, and, to divert her mind and keep
up her spirits, launched into a flow of small talk.

In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back in the coach, and began to cry
bitterly. So much for that mode of consolation.

Upon this he faced the situation, and begged her not to grieve. He
praised the good action she had done, and told her how everybody admired
her for it, especially himself.

At that she gave him her hand in silence, and turned away her pretty
head. He carried her hand respectfully to his lips; and his manly heart
began to yearn over this suffering virtue,--so grave, so dignified, so
meek. He was no longer a young man; he began to talk to her like a
friend. This tone, and the soft, sympathetic voice in which a gentleman
speaks to a woman in trouble, unlocked her heart; and for the first
time in her life she was led to talk about herself.

She opened her heart to him. She told him she was not the woman to pine
for any man. Her youth, her health, and love of occupation, would carry
her through. What she mourned was the loss of esteem, and the blot upon
her child. At that she drew the baby with inexpressible tenderness, and
yet with a half-defiant air, closer to her bosom.

Sir George assured her she would lose the esteem of none but fools. "As
for me," said he, "I always respected you, but now I revere you. You are
a martyr and an angel."

"George," said Mercy, gravely, "be you my friend, not my enemy."