Through all time had ever any man such a wife, he would think, as he watched her softly frowning, pondering over a thought and bringing out the result with that charming diffidence, that wonderful veneration for the nice intricacies of truth that characterized her, looking withal so young, so soft, so serene. No wonder that the man’s heart clave unto her! And now those pictures! That sublimely haughty young woman—that big strong soldier with pluck of a most soulless British order stamped all over him, came in and robbed him of the better part of himself. They still sat side by side, hand in hand, and worked together, but they were no longer one. No wonder indeed, that untimely age fell upon the man and forced him with its chill hand down on his stick, a little heavier as each day passed! Mrs. Waring did not go out every day, her restless yearning often took her no farther than the children’s old nursery, where she would sit by their little chests of drawers and finger their old yellowing baby clothes with a shy sad wistful wonderment; she had never put a stitch into one of them, and their shapes and intricacies were sealed mysteries to her. Mary, now grown aged and gray, looked upon the state of affairs with much dissatisfaction, and seemed likely to continue to do so, for things instead of getting better got worse. Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes did all they could to turn her gentle persistent grief into a more healthy channel and were by no means careful to spare her any plain speaking, but it seemed impossible to get her to fit her new sweet sad experience into her old life and to make a whole of it. It is a frightful grind to get a great heartful of fresh emotions, of new sorrows and joys, into a middle-aged woman, and not to cause a general disruption. It seemed rather hard, however, that Mr. Waring should half perish in his wife’s own particular earthquake. But though his grief lay down with him at night and rose with him day by day, he cherished her with ever-increasing tenderness, and never by word or look expressed the smallest atom of reproach. Towards the end of July a little fleecy cloud of hope, no bigger than a man’s hand, appeared upon the horizon, and Mr. Waring grasped it with nervous despair. After repeated puttings off, Gwen was coming for certain in a week or two, to remain until the shooting took them North.