Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org)) APRIL'S LADY. A NOVEL. BY "THE DUCHESS" _Author of "Molly Bawn," "Phyllis," "Lady Branksmere," "Beauty's Daughters," etc., etc._ Montreal: JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 St. Nicholas Street. Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell & Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at Ottawa. APRIL'S LADY. "Must we part? or may I linger? Wax the shadows, wanes the day." Then, with voice of sweetest singer, That hath all but died away, "Go," she said, but tightened finger Said articulately, "Stay!" CHAPTER I. "Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but present evils triumph over philosophy." "A letter from my father," says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter in question across the breakfast-table to his wife. "A letter from Sir George!" Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson. "And _such_ a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! read it," says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for the writer of the letter. Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that might almost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it from her as though it had been a scorpion. "Never mind, Jack!" says she with a great assumption of indifference that does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full of tears. "Butter that bit of toast for me before it is _quite_ cold, and give Joyce some ham. Ham, darling? or an egg?" to Joyce, with a forced smile that makes her charming face quite sad. "Have you two been married eight whole years?" asks Joyce laying her elbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. "It seems like yesterday! What a swindler old Time is. To look at Barbara, one would not believe she could have been _born_ eight years ago." "Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased as married women--even the happiest--always do, when they are told they look _un_married. "Why Tommy is seven years old." "Oh! That's nothing!" says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that are lovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who is sitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much older than his mother. Much more advanced; more learned in the wisdom of _this_ world; aren't you, Tommy?"