September had set in, and the woods about my old country home were taking their first autumn tints, when I said good-bye to the rectory. Dear, peaceful house, in which Ronald and I had begun a new and better life together! I felt that I should love those ivied walls to the very last day of my life, and thank God that I had found a shelter there in the hour of my sharp distress. Marian had gone back to her aunt, in Curzon Street, and I travelled back to London alone. Memories came rushing in upon my heart as the train bore me back again to the home of my wedded life. New thoughts, new prayers, new resolutions, made the journey seem short to me. There was a clearer light shining now upon the path which the young wife had to tread—a path in which her feeble feet had often stumbled, and her hands groped blindly for some guiding touch. But experience had taught me where the dangerous places were to be found; and the mist of doubt and fear would obscure my way no more. It did not trouble me to know that we should have to live as cheaply as possible for many a month to come. Ronald had declared himself heartily willing to economise, and save enough out of his salary to pay off all that we owed. My health, still delicate, would oblige me to lead the quietest of lives, and my husband repeatedly assured me that he desired nothing better than home-like peace and rest. We had promised each other to begin a fresh existence, making light of small crosses, and thinking the most of every joy that came to our lot. Ronald had already entered into his new employment heart and soul; and as his presence was required at his office, it was nurse who came to meet me at the railway-station. It was between two and three in the afternoon when the train arrived at its destination, and I caught sight of a well-known, comely face, and a portly figure on the platform. There was a suppressed rapture in nurse's greeting, which diverted, while it almost unnerved me; the good soul's gratitude at seeing me restored to health and happiness was expressed in her own quaint fashion: "Ah, how sweet you look, Miss Louie, ma'am! As pretty again as ever, and everything about you smells of the country! Why, that's a bunch of Glory-de-John roses from dear master's own old tree! And here's a basket of the rectory pears, that make my mouth water to behold 'em! Come, my dear, step into a cab, and don't speak a word till you have had a cup of tea and a good rest." Obeying her kind command, I was silent as we rolled on through the sunshiny London streets; but when we drew near home, my heart began to throb fast with the bliss of the old love and the new peace.