“They would kill me,” said Juanita, smiling at him for the first time in their interview. “I am not very fond of children. It sounds unwomanly to say so, but I often find myself wishing they could be born grown up. Fortunately, Lady Jane adores them. And I am glad to have the Grenvilles at Christmas time. I want all things to be as they would have been were my dearest here. I lie here and look round this room, which was his, and think and think, and think of him till I almost fancy he is here. Idle fancy! Mocking dream! Oh! if you knew how often I dream that he is living still, and that I am still his happy wife. I dream that he has been dead—or at least that we have all believed that he was dead—but that it was a mistake. He is alive; our own for long years to come. The wild rapture of that dream wakes me, and I know that I am alone. God keep you, Theodore, from such a loss as mine!” “I must gain something before I can lose it,” he answered, with a shade of bitterness. “I see myself, as the years go on, hardening into a lonely old bachelor, outliving the capacity for human affection.” “That is nonsense-talk. You think so just now, perhaps. There is no one beyond your own family you care for, and you fancy yourself shut out from the romance of life—but your day will come, very suddenly, perhaps. You will see some one whom you can care for. Love will enter your life unawares, and will fill your heart and mind, and the ambition that absorbs you now will seem a small thing.” “Never, Juanita. I don’t mean to plague you with any trouble of mine. You have given me your friendship, and I hope to be worthy of it; but pray do not talk to me of the chances of the future. My future is bounded by the hope of getting on at the Bar. If I fail in that I fail in everything.” “You will not fail. There is no reason you should not prosper in your profession as my father prospered. I often think that you are like him—more like him than you are like your own father.” Their talk touched on various subjects after this—on the great events of the world, the events that make history—on books and theatres, and then upon Sarah Newton, whose plan of life interested Juanita. He told her of the girl called Marian, and her inquiries about Cheriton. “I wonder if you ever knew her among your villagers,” he said. “I should much like to know who she is. She interests me more than I can say. There is a refinement in her manners and appearance that convinces me she must have belonged to superior people. She was never born in a labourer’s cottage, or amidst a small shopkeeper’s shabby surroundings. She was never taught at a National School, or broken into domestic service.” “And she was once very handsome, you say?” “Yes, she must have been beautiful, before illness and trouble set their marks upon her face. She is only a wreck now, but there is beauty in the wreck.” “How old do you suppose her to be?”