During the last week, they had held many debates as to where they should spend the honeymoon. As yet, they had only partially settled the important point. By Millicent’s express wish, the first week was to be passed at Clifton. ‘Dear old Clifton!’ she said. ‘We met there first; remember that, sir!’ Frank did not particularly want to go to Clifton, but he yielded without a murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland, Italy, France, Scotland, or Ireland afterwards, was to be decided at their leisure. So the brougham drove to Paddington, and Mr and Mrs Frank Abbot took the train for the west. They spent five happy days at Clifton; although they knew the scenery by heart, it looked more beautiful than ever under the present auspices. Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere; but Millicent seemed in no hurry to make a move. ‘I wonder, Frank,’ she said one evening, ‘you don’t go over and have a look at your old home.’ ‘I haven’t the heart to go,’ sighed Frank. ‘I might have gone by myself; but I can’t stand it with you. I shall be thinking all the while how you would have graced it.’ ‘Who lives there now?’ ‘A Mr Tompkinson—a London merchant.’ ‘I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do take me to-morrow.’ Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look at the old place, consented. They decided to go the next day. ‘We will have a carriage, and drive,’ said Frank. ‘What extravagance!’ said Millicent. ‘Never mind. I shall only be married once. When our honeymoon is over, we will go in for strict economy.’ Millicent agreed to this. So a carriage was hired the next morning, and they started for Frank’s ancestral home. It was a lovely September morning; the air was fresh and exhilarating. As soon as the dark dusty city was left behind, Millicent’s spirits rose to a mad pitch, which Frank, with all his newly married adoration, fancied was not quite in keeping with what was to him at least a sort of solemn pilgrimage. She caught hold of his hands and squeezed them, she laughed and talked; in fact, generally misconducted herself. Frank had never seen her in such a mood before. He was fain to believe that she was forcing her merriment, to show him how little she cared for the loss of the wealth she would have shared. Nevertheless, as each landmark came in sight, and at last he knew that he was passing through lands which one day should have been his, he grew gloomy, moody, and miserable. Millicent saw what passed through his mind; she sank into silence; an occasional pressure of the hand only reminding him that at least he had her. Presently he stopped the carriage. ‘You can get the best view of the dear old house from here,’ he said. ‘Let us get out,’ said his wife. They alighted, and for some minutes stood looking at the long gray house. Frank’s eyes were full of tears. ‘Can’t we go over the house?’ asked Millicent. ‘By permission of Mr Tompkinson, no doubt; but he is a stranger to me, so I don’t care to ask it.’