As the evening wore itself on, so did Edith’s uneasiness increase, but she did her best to hide it from Jane and Mrs. Garside. Lionel had told her that she must not expect him much before midnight, and up to the time of the clock striking eleven she contrived to take her share in the conversation with tolerable composure, but after that time she was unable to altogether control herself. What terrible scenes might not even then be enacting at Park Newton! To what danger might not her husband be exposed, while, only a mile away, they three were idly chatting about twenty indifferent topics! How intolerable it was to be a woman, to be condemned to inaction, to have no share in the dangers of those one loved, to be able to do nothing but wait—wait—wait! If she went to the window once, she went twenty times, to listen for the sound of coming hoofs. The roads were hard and dry, and it would be possible to hear the horsemen while they were still some distance away. To and fro she paced the little room like an imprisoned leopardess. White-faced, eager-eyed, her long slender fingers clasping and unclasping themselves unceasingly, she looked like some priestess of old, who sees in her mind’s eye a vision of doom—a vision of things to come, pregnant with woe unutterable. The two women watched her in silence: her mood infected them: it could not be otherwise; but there was nothing for them to do; they could only wait and listen. “I can bear this no longer,” said Edith, at last; “the room suffocates me. I must get out into the fresh air. I must go and meet Lionel.” She snatched up a shawl of Mrs. Garside’s, that lay on the sofa, and flung it over her head and shoulders. “Let me go with you,” cried Jane, “I am almost as anxious as you are.” “Hush! hush!” cried Edith, suddenly, “I hear them coming!” Hardly breathing, they all listened. “I can hear nothing but the low moaning of the wind,” cried Mrs. Garside, after a few moments. “Nor I,” said Jane. “I tell you they are coming,” said Edith. “There are two of them. Listen! Surely you can hear them now!” She flung open the window as she spoke; then could be plainly heard the sound of hoofs on the hard highroad. A minute or two later the horsemen drew rein at the cottage door. Martha Vince, candle in hand, lighted them up the stairs, at the top of which the ladies stood waiting to receive them. Very stern and very pale looked the face of Lionel Dering as, followed by Tom Bristow, he walked slowly upstairs as a man in a dream. He was no longer disguised: face, hands, and hair were their natural colour. To see him thus sent a thrill to every heart there. To each, and all of them, he seemed like a man newly risen from the grave. Hardly had he reached the top of the stairs before Edith’s white arms were round his neck.