Just as the parlour door was flung open, I started up, suddenly conscious that I was in a most ungraceful attitude. Seated in our only easy chair, I had put my feet up on another, and on this extemporised couch I had enjoyed an interval of most blissful repose. There are few who have not experienced the intense sweetness of that sleep which comes to us at unexpected times, and in somewhat inconvenient places—a sweetness which we often miss when we lie down on the orthodox couch at night, and anxiously await the coming of the drowsy god. Even now, when heart and brain are at rest, I can remember those snatches of perfect forgetfulness of this life and its sordid troubles, and I like to fancy that they were sent to me by a Divine kindness. Half-bewildered, and still entangled in the web of dreams, I rose, and found myself face to face with William Greystock. "I am afraid I have startled you, Mrs. Hepburne," he said, in a voice which was lunch softer than his usual tone. "You have not been well, I hear—indeed, you are not looking strong." There was something almost tender in the fixed look of his dark eyes; but it was a tenderness that did not draw me towards him for a moment. "No, I am not very strong," I admitted, simply. "My husband's illness was long and trying, you know, and anxiety wore me out." "You are very much changed." The words seemed to fall involuntarily from his lips, and the pity in his face stung me. "I was prepared for changes when I married," I said, coldly. "Every girl is. I never expected to go on leading the easy do-nothing life I lived with Lady Waterville." "Ah, yes! You got tired of that life. You even preferred trouble to monotony; that's always the way with women." "Isn't it the way with men also?" I asked, with a smile. "That was said like Miss Coverdale—you were always fond of putting questions. Well, no; I believe women care more about excitement than we do, that's the truth." "I don't agree with you," I replied, shaking my head. "But we won't begin one of our old interminable arguments—besides, a good deal of the spirit of contradiction has died out of me. How is Lady Waterville?" "Very well; and yet I don't know that I ought to say 'very well.' She is far too stout and apathetic to be in perfect health." "But she has been stout and apathetic for any number of years, and the condition seems to agree with her," I said. "I haven't lost one bit of my old affection for her, Mr. Greystock, although I suppose she never will forgive me." He laughed, but the pitying look was still in his eyes. "I think she has forgiven you in her heart," he answered. "But sometimes forgiveness is never acknowledged in a lifetime. It is only revealed when death has 'set his seal' upon the lips. Poor Lady Waterville! She has missed you." My eyes filled with tears; for a moment I could not speak.