She had prayed for strength, and she found it. She did not weep, but meekly sat, patient and uncomplaining. The hour for dressing arrived, and she mechanically proceeded with her toilet. Her maid had prepared the dress, the ornaments she thought she would wear. Mechanically she sate before the looking-glass, mechanically she arranged her ringlets round her face; she placed in her hair the ornamental comb her maid presented to her, fastened her ear-rings, held out her arm to have her bracelets clasped, and, when she was dressed, wondered at herself for having tricked herself out in all these gewgaws. “How strange,” she thought, “that I should have been able thus to deck this wretched form!” But such is the force of habit: it does not come into any body’s head to leave off the feathers, the diamonds, the flowers with which they are in the habit of adorning themselves, though the heart beneath may be breaking—and yet it seems a mockery! Before dinner Lady Coverdale begged that the children might be sent for, and little Agnes appeared in a beautiful cap which Miss Coverdale had embroidered for her. The beauty of the child’s eyes was discussed. “If Agnes grows up according to this promise, Mrs. Hamilton”—(Ellen started at the name)—“you will have a pleasant task in acting as her chaperon.” Ellen almost sank at the prospect which was thus brought before her. She could not answer, but, hastily turning away, stirred the fire with great energy, at the same time exclaiming, “How hot it is!” They went to dinner; she was seated at the head of the table, opposite to Mr. Hamilton. She felt a sort of melancholy pleasure in being, as it were, forced to appear as his wife; but never did two such bursting hearts pass calmly through an evening of society. Another day succeeded, and it was spent in the same struggle. On the third the Coverdales departed, thinking that, for so happy a couple, they were the most fashionably cool they had ever seen; the Allenhams, fearing that Mr. Hamilton, charming as he was, must have an odd corner of temper, for, as to Ellen, they knew her too well to imagine for a moment that she could be in fault. They all drove from the door, and the wretched couple were left alone with their love and their misery. “And now _you_ must leave me, Algernon; we must not remain here alone, and I even doubt whether I ought to remain under your roof.” “Oh, Ellen! one would think you wished to believe we were severed, for ever severed! There is still hope.” “None for me! I know that hand-writing too well.” “Must I go to-day?” “To-day, if you value my peace, and the little remnant of honour I may yet hope to preserve.”