From Mary de Vigny's house, Alice went to Mary de Vigny's church close by. And so the two toilsome years in London were sweetened and cheered; and if her outer life was hard and painful, her inner life became peaceful and fair. The time of release had come at last, and it was Mary who had found her a new home in the country. Miss de Vigny's room was cooler than most rooms in London, and when you went in you felt you had entered into an atmosphere of contentment. There were always flowers here; to-day Alice's eyes rested gratefully on a big bunch of mignonette and some graceful feathery grasses. Mary greeted her with genuine affection, and pointed to the nosegay. "Only think what it will be," said she, "to have your fill of flowers!" "Oh, I have been trying to realise the delight in store for me!" Alice cried. "My poor father never cared for the country in the very least. He always bustled me about to fashionable watering-places in the summer. If my mother had lived, life would have been different for him and for me." She sighed; but Mary spoke cheerfully. "We must let all the 'ifs' alone, Alice," she said. "It is better to leave 'ifs' and 'might-have-beens' lying by the wayside if we want to get on upon our journey. I know how prone we are to stop, and pick up useless regrets; it has been an old folly of my own." They had tea together, with the mignonette on the table between them. Miss de Vigny said it was like a festival, but she thought Alice looking tired and worn. "I don't think you could have toiled on much longer," she remarked. "It has been a weary time, my child." "You have brightened it," said Alice gratefully. "Everybody else has forgotten me, and you know I wished to be forgotten." "Here and there one remembers you," said Mary, looking at her with observant eyes. "Only yesterday, in this very street, I met someone who asked what had become of you." "I hope you did not tell!" Alice cried. "I told very little. I merely said that you were living, and working for yourself. It was Mr. Cardigan who asked for you." Alice's mouth took a scornful curve. "I do not like him," said she. "I detest rich men." Miss de Vigny shook her head in reproof. "That is rather a hard saying, my dear. For my own part, I think well of Robert Cardigan. He is natural--refreshingly natural, and I fancy he wants to know what to do with his money. After all, that money came to him in an honest way from a relation who died abroad; I do not see why it should not wear well." "Perhaps I am prejudiced," said Alice colouring. "I have not liked what I have seen of rich men. Most of them always wanted to be richer still, and hovered round my father to be instructed in investments. Mr. Cardigan only came into his fortune just before the blow fell upon me. But I thought he was like all the rest." Miss de Vigny dropped the subject. She was not a woman of many words, and generally knew when to hold her peace.