The bride and bridegroom went for their honeymoon into Devonshire, and on their road they passed through London. Lady Anna Thwaite,--for she had not at least as yet been able to drop her title,--wrote to her mother telling her of her arrival, and requesting permission to see her. On the following day she went alone to Keppel Street and was admitted. "Dear, dear mamma," she said, throwing herself into the arms of her mother. "So it is done?" said the Countess. "Yes;--mamma,--we are married. I wrote to you from York." "I got your letter, but I could not answer it. What could I say? I wish it had not been so;--but it is done. You have chosen for yourself, and I will not reproach you." "Do not reproach me now, mamma." "It would be useless. I will bear my sorrows in silence, such as they are. Do not talk to me of him, but tell me what is the life that is proposed for you." They were to stay in the south of Devonshire for a month and then to sail for the new colony founded at the Antipodes. As to any permanent mode of life no definite plan had yet been formed. They were bound for Sydney, and when there, "my husband,"--as Lady Anna called him, thinking that the word might be less painful to the ears of her mother than the name of the man who had become so odious to her,--would do as should seem good to him. They would at any rate learn something of the new world that was springing up, and he would then be able to judge whether he would best serve the purpose that he had at heart by remaining there or by returning to England. "And now, mamma, what will you do?" "Nothing," said the Countess. "But where will you live?" "If I could only find out, my child, where I might die, I would tell you that." "Mamma, do not talk to me of dying." "How should I talk of my future life, my dear? For what should I live? I had but you, and you have left me." "Come with me, mamma." "No, my dear. I could not live with him nor he with me. It will be better that he and I should never see each other again." "But you will not stay here?" "No;--I shall not stay here. I must use myself to solitude, but the solitude of London is unendurable. I shall go back to Cumberland if I can find a home there. The mountains will remind me of the days which, sad as they were, were less sad than the present. I little dreamed then when I had gained everything my loss would be so great as it has been. Was the Earl there?" "At our marriage? Oh yes, he was there." "I shall ask him to do me a kindness. Perhaps he will let me live at Lovel Grange?"