rs Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought of her life
past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a broken light, see
something of the error of her ways, and did, after a fashion, repent.
It was all 'leather or prunello,' as she said to herself;--it was all
vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real enjoyment had she found
in anything? She had only taught herself to believe that some day
something would come which she would like;--but she had never as yet
in truth found anything to like. It had all been in anticipation,--but
now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr Broune had sent her son
away, had forbidden her to write any more novels and had been refused
when he had asked her to marry him!

The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very
wretched. 'I shall give up this house,' she said. 'I can't afford to
keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know
where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will
be the same to me now.'

'I don't see why you should say that.'

'What does it matter?'

'You wouldn't think of going out of London.'

'Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest.'

'I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see
you,' said Mr Broune plaintively.

'So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody. But
what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some miserable
lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I am wrong;
but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes, so that I
may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta doesn't want
me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to.'

'I want you,' said Mr Broune, very quietly.

'Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good as
goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the acceptance
from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because I have so
sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost daily
trouble, but where shall I find a friend?'

'When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two
or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly,
if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has
been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced
myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still, I
have quite convinced myself,--that such a ma