Breakfast was over, and yet no one stirred; a heavy, dreary revery seemed to have settled on all except Daly,--and he, from delicacy, restrained the impatience that was working within him. In vain he sought to catch Darcy's eye, and then Lionel's,--both were bent downward. Lady Eleanor at last looked up, and at once seemed to read what was passing in his mind. “I am ready,” said she, in a low, gentle voice, “and I see Mr. Daly is not sorry at it. Helen, dearest, fetch me my gloves.” She arose, and the others with her. The calmness in which she spoke on the theme that none dared approach, seemed also to electrify them, when suddenly a low sob was heard, and the mother fell, in a burst of anguish, into the arms of her son. “Eleanor, my dearest Eleanor!” said Darcy, as his pale cheek shook and his lip trembled. As if recalled to herself by the words, she raised her head, and, with a smile of deep-meaning sorrow, said,-- “It's the first tear I have yet shed; it shall be the last.” Then, taking Daly's arm, she walked steadily forward. “I have often wondered,” said she, “at the prayer of a condemned felon for a few hours longer of life; but I can understand it now. I feel as if I could give life itself for another day within these walls, where often I have pined with _ennui_. You will watch over Lionel for me, Mr. Daly. When the world went fairly with us, calamities came softened,--as the summer rain falls lighter in sunshine; but now, now that we have lost so much, we cannot afford more.” Daly's stern features grew sterner and darker; his lips were compressed more firmly; he tried to say a few words, but a low, indistinct muttering was all that came. The next moment the carriage door was closed on the party--they were gone. Lionel stood gazing after them till they disappeared, and then, with a slow step, re-entered the abbey. CHAPTER XXXV. BAGENAL DALY'S RETURN