"Every day; and I used to go down on my knees and pray for him, that so I might be sure my interest in him was harmless. We came to London, too; and every time I drove along the streets—I sate in ray own carriage, then, my dear—I used to wonder if I should see _him_. I went to the theatre in which he was scene-painter, thinking I might catch a glimpse of him from one of the boxes, passing through the wings; but I never did. I knew his house, however, and sometimes I passed it; but I never had the courage to look at the windows, for fear he should be there. It was very wicked, very wicked, Annie." "Was your husband kind to you?" "In a distant sort of way that tormented me. He seemed always to consider me an actress, and a baby; and he invariably went out into society alone, lest I should compromise him, I suppose. I think I grew mad altogether; for one day, I left his house resolved never to go back again——" "And you said he was kind to you!" repeated the girl, with a slight accent of reproach. "I suppose I was mad, Annie; at any rate I felt myself driven to it, and couldn’t help myself. I went straight to the street in which _he_ lived, and walked up and down, expecting to meet him. He did not come. I took lodgings in a coffeehouse. Next day I went back to that street; even then I did not see him. On the third afternoon, I saw him come down the steps from his house, and I all at once felt sick and cold. How different he looked now!—firm, and resolute, and manly, but still with the old gentleness about the eyes. He turned very pale when he saw me, and was about to pass on. Then he saw that my eyes followed him, and perhaps they told him something, for he turned and came up to me, and held out his hand, without saying a word." There were tears in the old woman’s eyes now. "’You forgive me?’ I said, and he said ’Yes’ so eagerly that I looked up again. I took his arm, and we walked on, in the old fashion, and I forgot everything but the old, old days, and I wished I could have died just then. It seemed as if all the hard intervening years had been swept out, and we were still down in Bristol, and still looking forward to a long life together. I think we were both out of our senses for several minutes; and I shall never forget the light there was on his face and in his eyes. Then he began to question me, and all at once he turned to me, with a scared look, and said— "’What have you done?’ "It was past undoing then. I knew he loved me at that moment as much as ever, by the terrible state he got into. He implored me to go back to my husband. I told him it was too late. I had already been away two days from home. "’If I could only have seen you on the day you left your husband’s house," he said, ’this would never have happened. I should have made you go back.’ "Then I began to feel a kind of fear, and I said— "’What am I to do, Charlie? What are you going to do with me?’