It cannot be imagined, that with that pardon, or reconciliation, Tremenhere became calm and happy; true it was, that Minnie never quitted home without him, scarcely ever quitted his side, but the mad dream which had been, left its trace on his every action; he was a broken-spirited man. His profession was a toil of every instant--a necessity, not a pleasure. He saw Minnie growing daily paler and sadder, and, though his heart ached to see it, still he could not overcome his sensations of doubt. "She is perhaps fretting about Lord Randolph," he thought to himself, "and after all I said, in condemnation of her, poor child! she perhaps deserves more pity; for I took her almost one, from her home. She had seen no one to fancy herself in love with, till I came. Unjust coercion drove her into my arms; it was probably more from indignation than from love, yet, too, I think she loved me once," and here he pondered on many an unmistakeable proof of affection; her watchings for his return, the lighting up of the whole countenance, which no art could imitate. "Yes," he continued, "she certainly loved me once, but then she is of a gentle, loving nature; she knew not the vast difference between _affection_ and _love_, until _he_, perhaps, taught her. Poor child--poor Minnie! what a life of misery we have created for one another; but we must bear it, and linger on!" And so completely did the thought take possession of his soul that these ideas were well founded, that for a while his feelings towards her assumed a tone of almost fatherly pity, so worn and old his heart felt. He had vainly endeavoured to trace who sent the brougham, the letters--in short, to _prove_ it Marmaduke; but all failed. The hire of the brougham, and order to send it to Chiswick, had been brought to the stables by a boy, who was not known or detained; there was nothing in the act to excite suspicion of wrong. He wrote to Lord Randolph a calm, deliberate letter, requesting, but in all politeness, that his visits might be discontinued. He was certain, he said, that Lord Randolph would see the absolute necessity of such a thing, after the many unaccountable circumstances which had taken place. And the "Aurora" was taken, unfinished, from her easel, and placed aside, and not a word on the subject passed between Minnie and her husband; it was a state of coldness which could not last. The affair had been so painful a one, that by mutual consent neither ever spoke of it, nor even named it to Lady Dora, whose visits were not of very frequent occurrence. One day, however, she called, having been absent a month at Brighton; she was more excited than usually happened to her. After sitting some time in evident uneasiness, she at last begged Minnie to let her speak with her alone. Minnie rose to quit the drawing-room; she grew trembling; every thing new, startled her.