ull days and my bright
days--and just now my barometer is down at dull." His voice faltered,
in spite of his efforts to control it; he gave up the struggle, and took
his hat to go. "Do you remember, Emily, what I once said to you in the
garden at the school? I still believe there is a time of fulfillment to
come in our lives." He suddenly checked himself, as if there had been
something more in his mind to which he hesitated to give expression--and
held out his hand to bid her good-by.

"My memory of what you said in the garden is better than yours," she
reminded him. "You said 'Happen what may in the interval, I trust the
future.' Do you feel the same trust still?"

He sighed--drew her to him gently--and kissed her on the forehead. Was
that his own reply? She was not calm enough to ask him the question: it
remained in her thoughts for some time after he had gone.

........

On the same day Emily was at Brighton.

Francine happened to be alone in the drawing-room. Her first proceeding,
when Emily was shown in, was to stop the servant.

"Have you taken my letter to the post?"

"Yes, miss."

"It doesn't matter." She dismissed the servant by a gesture, and burst
into such effusive hospitality that she actually insisted on kissing
Emily. "Do you know what I have been doing?" she said. "I have been
writing to Cecilia--directing to the care of her father, at the House of
Commons. I stupidly forgot that you would be able to give me the right
address in Switzerland. You don't object, I hope, to my making myself
agreeable to our dear, beautiful, greedy girl? It is of such importance
to me to surround myself with influential friends--and, of course,
I have given her your love. Don't look disgusted! Come, and see your
room.--Oh, never mind Miss Ladd. You will see her when she wakes. Ill?
Is that sort of old woman ever ill? She's only taking her nap after
bathing. Bathing in the sea, at her age! How she must frighten the
fishes!"

Having seen her own bed-chamber, Emily was next introduced to the room
occupied by Francine.

One object that she noticed in it caused her some little surprise--not
unmingled with disgust. She discovered on the toilet-table a
coarsely caricatured portrait of Mrs. Ellmother. It was a sketch in
pencil--wretchedly drawn; but spitefully successful as a likeness.
"I didn't know you were an artist," Emily remarked, with an ironical
emphasis on the last word. Francine laughed