She had got her friend back, and that was a comfort, but she was not treating him with confidence; indeed, she was passively deceiving him, and that chilled her; but then it would not be for long, and that comforted her, and yet even when the day should come for the great doors of Clifford Hall to fly open to her, would not a sad, reproachful look from dear Mr.
Hope somewhat imbitter her cup of happiness?
Deceit, and even reticence, did not come so natural to her as they do to many women: she was not weak, and she was frank, though very modest.
Mr.Bartley met them at the door, and, owing to Hope's presence, was more demonstrative than usual.

He seemed much pleased at Mary's return, and delighted at her appearance.
"Well," said he, "I am glad I sent you away for a week.

We have all missed you, my dear, but the change has set you up again, I never saw you look better.

Now you are well, we must try and keep you well." * * * * * We must leave the reader to imagine the mixed feelings with which Mrs.
Walter Clifford laid her head upon the pillow that night, and we undertake to say that the female readers, at all events, will supply this blank in our narrative much better than we could, though we were to fill a chapter with that subject alone.
* * * * * Passion is a terrible enemy to mere affection.

Walter Clifford loved his father dearly, yet for twenty-four hours he had almost forgotten him.
But the moment he turned his horse's head toward Clifford Hall, uneasiness and something very like remorse began to seize him.