“I hope I have done right. I hope and trust I have done right. I could not have said more nor less. It would never have done to tell her beforehand, sensitive as she is, of the sacrifice, as it would be called, that I must make to win her. No, now that I am sure of her I must have everything else settled and done before she hears of it. But then, again, some difficulty she hinted at on her side, connected, I have no doubt, with the family disgrace I suspected some time ago. Her father, she mentioned. Can he have some marriage in view for her? I should not wonder. Mrs. Archer said more than once that she was not always to remain a governess. There is something queer about their affairs I am certain, for even Mrs. Archer, inconsiderate as she generally is, is reserved about them. But there can be nothing that would affect my Marion herself. Nothing, now that I am sure she cares for me. But I wish I were back again! As soon as possible on my return I must see her, and explain to her my position clearly. Then she must decide for herself, if she can venture to be a poor man’s wife. A very poor man by all appearances. But she has a brave spirit of her own! Fortunately, the quarrel with my mother was not owing to her; so she need have no feeling of responsibility about it. If there had been no other woman in the world I would not have married Florence Vyse. Yes, I see what I must do. As soon as I return with the promise I hope for, I shall lay the whole before Marion, and, in return, hear from her the fancied obstacles on her side. Then I will speak to my mother, and give her a last chance of retaining my affection and respect. But not till I have first had a thorough explanation with Marion. And supposing my mission is unsuccessful? Time enough if it is so. I am tired of caution. It must succeed.” And so, full of hope and bright anticipations, he started for England the next morning. CHAPTER III. “FROM WANDERING ON A FOREIGN STRAND.” “So, I will lay one kiss Upon thy hand, and looking through the lights Of thy soft eyes, whisper the old word That runs before all detail and change, ‘farewell.’” ORESTES. IT was now about the middle of March. Many of the human swallows at Altes had already taken flight to more northern latitudes, others were preparing for so doing. The season was an unusually early one. The midday sun was already too powerful to face without great precautions in the way of shady hats and parasols, and people no longer congratulated themselves so triumphantly as a few weeks previously, on being out of “that dreadful English climate.” Even a little London rain would be acceptable, thought Marion, as she walked home one glaring morning from the Rue des Lauriers. And then her thoughts flew on to a certain familiar figure at that very moment probably enough pacing the grey, dreary pavement of the great city itself.