great black
brows, and pondered the whole situation with a mental power that was
worthy of a nobler sphere and higher materials.

Her practical revery, so to speak, continued until she was rung for to
dress her mistress for dinner.

* * * * *

Griffith was so upset, so agitated and restless, he could not stay long
in any one place, not even in the "Red Lion." So he came home to dinner,
though he had mighty little appetite for it. And this led to another
little conjugal scene.

Mrs. Gaunt mounted the great oak staircase to dress for dinner,
languidly, as ladies are apt to do, when reflection and regret come
after excitement.

Presently she heard a quick foot behind her: she knew it directly for
her husband's, and her heart yearned. She did not stop nor turn her
head: womanly pride withheld her from direct submission; but womanly
tenderness and tact opened a way to reconciliation. She drew softly
aside, almost to the wall, and went slower; and her hand, her sidelong
drooping head, and her whole eloquent person, whispered plainly enough,
"If somebody would like to make friends, here is the door open."

Griffith saw, but was too deeply wounded: he passed her without stopping
(the staircase was eight feet broad).

But as he passed he looked at her and sighed, for he saw she was sorry.

She heard, and sighed too. Poor things, they had lived so happy together
for years.

He went on.

Her pride bent: "Griffith!" said she, timidly.

He turned and stopped at that.

"Sweetheart," she murmured, "I was to blame. I was ungenerous. I forgot
myself. Let me recall my words. You know they did not come from my
heart."

"You need not tell me that," said Griffith, doggedly. "I have no quarrel
with you, and never will. You but do what you are bidden, and say what
you are bidden. I take the wound from you as best I may: the man that
set you on, 't is him I'll be revenged on."

"Alas that you will think so!" said she. "Believe me, dearest, that holy
man would be the first to rebuke me for rebelling against my husband and
flouting him. O, how _could_ I say such things? I thank you, and love
you dearly for being so blind to my faults; but I must not abuse your
blindness. Father Leonard will put me to penance for the fault you
forgive. _He_ will hear no excuses. Prithee, now, be more just to that
good man."

Griffith listened quietly, with a cold sneer upon his lip; and this was
his reply: "Till