"Nothing," said she, with a sigh: "only a woman's foolish misgivings. I was afraid perhaps you would not come back. Forgive me." "No fear of that," said he. "However, I have taken a resolve not to go to-day. If I go tomorrow, I shall be just in time; and Dick wants a good day's rest." Mrs. Gaunt said nothing; but her expressive face was triumphant. Griffith and she took a walk together; and he, who used to be the more genial of the two, was dull, and she full of animation. This whole day she laid herself out to bewitch her husband, and put him in high spirits. It was uphill work; but, when such a woman sets herself in earnest to delight a man, she reads our sex a lesson in the art, that shows us we are all babies at it. However, it was at supper she finally conquered. Here the lights, her beauty set off with art, her deepening eyes, her satin skin, her happy excitement, her wit and tenderness, and joyous sprightliness, enveloped Griffith in an atmosphere of delight, and drove everything out of his head but herself: and with this, if the truth must be told, the sparkling wines co-operated. Griffith plied the bottle a little too freely. But Mrs. Gaunt, on this one occasion, had not the heart to check him. The more he toasted her, the more uxorious he became, and she could not deny herself even this joy; but, besides, she had less of the prudent wife in her just then, than of the weak indulgent mother. Anything rather than check his love: she was greedy of it. At last, however, she said to him, "Sweetheart, I shall go to bed: for, I see, if I stay longer, I shall lead thee into a debauch. Be good now: drink no more when I am gone. Else I'll say thou lovest thy bottle more than thy wife." He promised faithfully. But, when she was gone, modified his pledge by drinking just one bumper to her health: which bumper let in another: and, when at last he retired to rest, he was in that state of mental confusion wherein the limbs appear to have a memory independent of the mind. In this condition do some men's hands wind up their watches, the mind taking no appreciable part in the ceremony. By some such act of what physicians call "organic memory," Griffith's feet carried him to the chamber he had slept in a thousand times, and not into the one Mrs. Ryder had taken him to the night before. The next morning he came down rather late for him, and found himself treated with a great access of respect by the servants. His position was no longer doubtful; he was the master of the house. Mrs. Gaunt followed in due course, and sat at breakfast with him, looking young and blooming as Hebe, and her eye never off him long. She had lived temperately, and had not yet passed the age when happiness can restore a woman's beauty and brightness in a single day. As for him, he was like a man in a heavenly dream: he floated in the past and the present: the recent and the future seemed obscure and distant, and comparatively in a mist.