Fortunately she had money in her pocket. She had also thrown a shawl across her arm before she came to the door. The shawl belonged to Miss Brooke, and had been offered to one of the guests as a loan; but Mary had forgotten all about the guests, and appropriated the shawl, with the cool resolution which characterized her in cases of emergency. Necessity--especially the necessity entailed by love--knows no law. At that moment she knew no law but that of her repressed and stunted, but always abiding, affection for the husband who had burdened her life for many weary years with toil and anxiety and care. For him she would do anything--throw up all friendships, sacrifice her future, her character, and, if need be, her life. She wrapped the shawl round her head, and put her arm through her husband's, without once looking back. "Come, Francis," she said, quietly, "show me where you live now. We will go home." She led him unresistingly away. For a little while he walked as if in a dream; but by and by his movements became more assured, and he turned so decidedly in one direction that she saw he knew his way and was pursuing it. She said nothing, but kept close to his side, with her hand resting lightly on his arm. She was not mistaken in her expectations. Francis went straight to the wretched lodging in which he had slept for the past few nights, and Mary at once assumed the management of his affairs. She was rewarded--as she thought, poor soul!--for her efforts. When she had lighted a fire and a candle, and prepared some sort of frugal meal for the man she loved, he lifted up his face and looked at her with a gleam of returning memory and intelligence in his haggard eyes. "Mary," he said, in a bewildered tone, "Mary--my wife? How did you come here, Mary? How did you find me out?" "Are you glad to see me, dear?" said Mary. "Yes--yes, I am. Everything will be right now. You'll manage things for me." It was an acknowledgment of the power of her affection which more than recompensed her for the trouble of the last few months. CHAPTER XXX. MRS. TRENT'S STORY. "I never heard of such an extraordinary thing," said Lesley. "Then that shows how little you know of the world," said Doctor Sophy, amicably. "I've heard of a hundred cases of the kind." "Well, there are some elements of oddity in this case," remarked Caspar Brooke, striking in with unexpected readiness to defend his daughter's views. "Kingston was not a giddy young girl, who would go off with any man who made love to her. Indeed, I can't quite fancy any man making love to her at all. She was remarkably plain, poor woman." "She had beautiful eyes," said Lesley. "And she was so nice and quiet and kind. And I really thought that she was--fond of me." She paused before she uttered the last three words, being a little afraid that they would be thought sentimental. And indeed Miss Brooke did give a contemptuous snort, but Caspar smiled kindly, and patted his daughter's hand.