He handed over his five shillings, procured a substitute for next Sunday, and went to Plymouth. He wandered through the streets but could see no dressmaker’s shop which looked as if it had recently changed hands. He walked backwards and forwards on the Hoe in the evening: the Eddystone light glimmered far away on the horizon; and the dim hope arose in him that it might be a prophecy of success, but his hope was vain. It came into his mind that it was not likely that she would be there after dusk, and he remembered her preference for early exercise. The first morning was a failure, but on the second—it was sunny and warm—he saw her sitting on a bench facing the sea. He went up unobserved and sat down. She did not turn towards him till he said “Mrs. Leighton!” She started and recognised him. Little was spoken as they walked home to her lodgings, a small private house. On her way she called at a large shop where she was employed and obtained leave of absence until after dinner. “At last!” said the doctor when the door was shut. She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire. “You put the advertisement in the _Stamford Mercury_?” he said. “Yes.” “I did not see it until a day or two ago.” “I had better tell you at once. My husband, whom you knew, was convicted of forgery, and died at Botany Bay.” Her eyes still watched the red cinders. The Doctor’s countenance showed no surprise, for no news could have had any power over the emotion which mastered him. The long, slow years were fulfilled. Long and slow and the fulfilment late, but the joy it brought was the greater. Youthful passion is sweet, but it is not sweeter than the discovery when we begin to count the years which are left to us, and to fear there will be nothing in them better than in those which preceded them that for us also love is reserved. Mrs. Leighton was obliged to go back to her work in the afternoon, but she gave notice that night to leave in a week.