Lord Mulgrave, for his part, had a gift for Miss Usher, and the evening before he took leave of her he offered her his heartfelt thanks for her care of his daughter. “I am aware that nothing I could give you, would be an adequate return,” he said, “but I want you to accept this as a memento of _Mary Foley_”; and he placed in her hand a blue velvet case--a case containing a string of pearls, which, as a lady friend subsequently remarked with bated breath, “must have cost hundreds and hundreds of pounds.” The travellers left for Holyhead by the early boat; and as Joseline, in the dull grey cold morning, took leave of her friend--her very last tie--she broke down and wept bitterly, and, with her arms tightly clasped round Miss Usher’s neck, fell into a sudden breathless sobbing. “May Heaven forgive me, but I _hate_ going, so I do,” she gasped. “Oh, Miss Usher dear, I wish to God I was on my way back to Glenveigh!” * * * * * At Kingstown the waves were tumbling over the west pier; the water in the harbour was lively. They were likely to experience a bad crossing--a bit of an October gale. At first Joseline enjoyed her novel experience of the sea, the stinging salt air, the unfamiliar up-and-down motion; but once past the “Kish,” when they caught the full force of the wind, she was compelled to seek refuge in the ladies’ cabin, where she fell an immediate prey to _mal de mer_ and terror. Over and over she believed that each lurch was the end! However, at last Holyhead stack was safely sighted, and a miserable, white-faced girl was claimed from the stewardess by the Earl of Mulgrave. Her head was swimming and aching as she crawled up the gangway, leaving _The Manners and Customs of Good Society_ behind her on board the _Ireland_. During the long day’s journey to London Joseline recovered but little, in spite of her companion’s most anxious solicitude; her interest in the flying landscape proved feeble, she felt so sick, and so utterly shattered and desolate. “Would you prefer to stop in London for the night, and go on to-morrow?” suggested Lord Mulgrave. “Oh, no, no! let us do it all at wance.” “And get it over,” he added, with a faint smile. “You need not be nervous, Joseline; every one is prepared to give you a warm welcome.” “But I feel so strange. I know I’ll be like a sort of wild plant that is pulled up by the roots, and stuck in a greenhouse, and every bit as much out of place.” “No, for you belong to the greenhouse,” he answered, “and by-and-by you will find that you are in your natural atmosphere.” “God send it!” she murmured, as with a gesture of weariness she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a comfortable little sleep. Her father, who sat opposite, studied the pale face anxiously. Here was the image of his dead wife: her outward form, with the mind, manners, and habits of an Irish peasant. What an unparalleled situation!