omfort to Mrs. Dennistoun, who had by this time
become very secure in her position, feeling herself entirely justified
in all that she had done. "The man," she said, "the man is not the
sufferer: and surely the woman has some claim to be heard."

"Every claim," said John. "That is not what I was thinking of. It is
this: if the man has a leg to stand upon, he will show fight. If he
hasn't--why that will make the whole difference, and probably Elinor's
position will be quite safe. But you yourself say----"

"John, don't throw back upon me what I myself said. I said that perhaps
things were not so bad as she believed. In my experience I have found
that folly, and playing with everything that is right is more common
than absolute wrong--and men like Philip Compton are made up of levity
and disregard of everything that is serious."

"In that case," said John, "if you are right, he will not let her go."

"Oh, John! oh, John! don't make me wish that he may be a worse man than
I think. He could not force her to go back to him, feeling as she does."

"Nobody can force a woman to do that; but he could perhaps make her
position untenable; he would, perhaps, take away the child."

"John," said Mrs. Dennistoun, in alarm, "if you tell her that, she will
fly off with him to the end of the world. She will die before she will
part with the child."

"I suppose that's how women are made," said John, not yet cured of his
personal offence.

"Yes," she said, "that's how women are made."

"I beg your pardon," he said, coming to himself; "but you know, aunt, a
man may be pardoned for not understanding that supreme fascination of
the baby who cares no more for one than another, poor little animal, so
long as it gets its food and is warm enough. We must await and see what
the man will do."

"Is that the best?--is there nothing we can do to defend ourselves in
the meantime--to make any sort of barricade against him?"

"We must wait and see what he is going to do," said John; and they went
over and over the question, again and again, as they climbed the hills.
It grew quite dark as they drove along, and when they came out upon the
open part of the road, from which the Cottage was visible, they both
looked out across the combe to the lights in the windows with an
involuntary movement. The Cottage was transformed; instead of the one
lonely lighted window which had indicated to John in former visits where
Mrs. Dennistoun sat alone, there