When it was all over, and the happy pair had gone off to Rome, Lady Sutherland asked Adrienne to come and stay a few days with her. And out of pity Adrienne went. She felt sorry for the old lady, who talked about going to a small dower house about four miles away, but evidently thought she ought not to be obliged to do it. She confided in Adrienne: "Of course Godfrey wishes me to stay; he says I can help Phemie so much, but she is not a girl who will like to be helped. It is the bitterest time in a woman's life when she has to give up her home, the reins of authority and her son to a stranger. Ah, my dear, I should not feel it so much were you my daughter-in-law." "I believe you would," said Adrienne, trying to laugh. "In some ways Phemie is more capable than I am. I am very fond of her, and you will be too when you've learnt to know her. She has had a hard girlhood, has she not? And I think that prosperity will soften her. She adores Godfrey, and he deserves to be adored." Adrienne had a way with her of lightening people's burdens. When she left Lady Sutherland, that good lady was resigned to her circumstances, and determined to make the best of them. "You're a dear girl," the old lady said, as she kissed her on parting. "I know you've had your own troubles, but you're fortunate in having a fresh home waiting for you. I know how you felt the loss of your Uncle Tom. It was a blow to all of us, and now this marriage of the Admiral's!—I only hope it will turn out well for them both." Adrienne had no doubt upon that point. Day by day she saw how increasingly happy her uncle became. It was quite pathetic to note how his eyes followed his wife, as she moved about, with both dignity and grace. With all her home interests, Adrienne never failed to write and to hear from Guy. They had fixed their wedding for the 15th of November. His last letter before he came over was as follows: "MY DEAREST,— "This is to be followed by me myself. How the days have dragged since you left us! But I have been busy, and have tried vainly to distract my thoughts from your little figure and personality. I was playing on the organ yesterday evening—just letting my thoughts run on—you need not be told the subject of them—and suddenly a small voice piped up from behind me: "'I think, Daddy, you're making up about Cousin Adie when she sings.' That was rather cute, wasn't it? He's making giant strides in his music. I don't want him to be a prodigy, but I'm convinced he'll be a musician. Yesterday he came an awful cropper off his pony and cut his head badly. It happened close to little Agatha's cottage and I took him straight in. He was howling horribly, but in an instant she calmed him. She put her hands upon his head, and he looked up at her and smiled: