little while, listening to the wind, and to the prattle of
the stream, that went singing along in daylight or in darkness, by our
happy home at Longfield. And I sighed to myself, "Poor Lady Caroline!"

CHAPTER XXIV

Midnight though it was, I sat up until John and his wife came home.
They said scarcely anything, but straightway retired. In the morning,
all went on in the house as usual, and no one ever knew of this night's
episode, except us three.

In the morning, Guy looked wistfully around him, asking for the "pretty
lady;" and being told that she was gone, and that he would not be
likely to see her again, seemed disappointed for a minute; but soon he
went down to play at the stream, and forgot all.

Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about the house was
rarer than its wont; that her quick, active, cheerful
presence--penetrating every nook, and visiting every creature, as with
the freshness of an April wind--was this day softer and sadder; but she
did not say anything to me, nor I to her.

John had ridden off early--to the flour-mill, which he still kept on,
together with the house at Norton Bury--he always disliked giving up
any old associations. At dinner-time he came home, saying he was going
out again immediately.

Ursula looked uneasy. A few minutes after, she followed me under the
walnut-tree, where I was sitting with Muriel, and asked me if I would
go with John to Kingswell.

"The election takes place to-day, and he thinks it right to be there.
He will meet Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore; and though there is not
the slightest need--my husband can do all that he has to do
alone--still, for my own satisfaction, I would like his brother to be
near him."

They invariably called me their brother now; and it seemed as if the
name had been mine by right of blood always.

Of course, I went to Kingswell, riding John's brown mare, he himself
walking by my side. It was not often that we were thus alone together,
and I enjoyed it much. All the old days seemed to come back again as
we passed along the quiet roads and green lanes, just as when we were
boys together, when I had none I cared for but David, and David cared
only for me. The natural growth of things had made a difference in
this, but our affection had changed its outward form only, not its
essence. I often think that all loves and friendships need a certain
three days' burial before we can be quite sure of their truth and
imm