Just at that moment there was a double knock at the hall door, which almost tempted me to believe that my husband had returned. But no, a woman's voice was heard asking for me; and then the door of my room was thrown open, and the parlour-maid announced "Miss Bailey." It was a name that called up a thousand pleasant memories. Marian Bailey had been the playmate of my childhood, and the companion of my early girlhood, till her home in our village was suddenly broken up, and she had gone to live abroad. But although I had lost sight of her, I had never forgotten her, and the sight of her familiar face was like a gleam of sunshine. "What brings you here, Marian?" I said, forgetting the traces of tears on my cheeks. "How did you find me?" She answered that she had traced me through some of nurse's relatives in our old village; and then her kind eyes rested anxiously on my face for a moment. I remembered all at once that I must present a most doleful spectacle, and there was an awkward pause. "I have been crying dreadfully," I admitted, taking her hands in mine, and clinging to her as I used to cling in the old days when anything troubled me, "Oh, Marian, how good it is to see you again! I have been cut off so long from everything connected with my old home that you seem to bring me back my lost happiness." "Don't talk so, dear," she answered, kissing me; "you are a wife now, and you would not, I know, exchange the present for the past. My sudden appearance has excited you, I daresay; and, Louie, you don't look quite well. Perhaps you want the country air." "No," I said, wearily. "I would not exchange this smoky old street for all the green trees and fields in the world. It is not the country air that I want, but the peace of mind—the freedom from care." "My dear child," she said, sitting down on the sofa and drawing me to her side, "we must have a long talk. As to freedom from care, do you really think that any married woman can reasonably expect that? I am single, you see, and so I suppose you will be surprised at my remark. But—" "But, Marian, you always understand people, no matter in what state of life they are. Yes, we must indeed have a long talk." But Marian was not one of those people who are always in such a hurry to gain one's confidence that they will not give one time to open one's heart. When she had got me beside her on the sofa, she began to talk about herself and her own concerns, explaining the circumstances that had brought her to London, and telling me some good news in her own simple, natural way. "I am no longer poor Marian Bailey," she said, gaily. "Indeed, Louie, I hardly know myself in my new character of rich Marian. What do you think of six hundred a year, and a home with my old aunt in Curzon Street? It was a great surprise to hear that my old uncle, who had never noticed me in his life, had remembered me at his death. Then his widow wrote to me, begging me to come and live with her; and here I am."