but there is no joy, and there is a constant sense of waiting; nothing seems particularly well worth doing, and my life, comfortable, well-ordered, and not useless as it is, has established itself on a very dead level. I am not going to mope, however, or to be discontented, or anything but cheerful, than what you would have me, until the time comes when the waiting will be over, and I can say, once more, 'His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair.' And now I must shut this up, sealing it with a kiss from baby, and one from your own HELEN. Helen Griswold sealed her letter, placed it in a large envelope, on which she wrote, with a strange shrinking repugnance, Trenton Warren's New York address, despatched it by a special messenger to his office, and went immediately to her child. A nervous flurry had come upon her while writing the last lines of her letter, and it was only by a determined struggle with herself that she kept off a passionate fit of crying; but she put it down, and went into the nursery with a calm face. This woman was growing apace. By what mysterious process? She talked cheerfully to Mrs. Jenkins, and taking the baby, who was sleepy, in her arms, rocked it to rest. The monotonous movement had a quieting influence upon herself, and by degrees her cheerfulness was restored. That night, when Helen Griswold was in her own room, she wrote for a while in the private memorandum-book in which we have already seen her record the circumstances which had given a double current and meaning to her life. Having made a few cursory notes of the main points of her letter to her husband, laying special stress upon the mention of Trenton Warren, she went on to note in her duplicate chronicle the principal event of the day--this was Thornton Carey's visit.