“I will do so, since you wish it, Madam. May God comfort you and guide you through your very trying path, for I begin to see now that _in one respect_ you are right,” said Barbara, with earnestness, “for as long as there exists the slightest question of the perfect legality of that ceremony that passed between yourself and his lordship, you can as a Christian do no otherwise than reserve yourself—Baron Dazzleright and Parson Oldfield to the contrary notwithstanding. Upon this subject, a pure-hearted woman’s instinct is worth all the legal opinions and theological dogmas in the world. You are right, dear lady, and in your painful adherence to right I see the brightest hope of your coming years.” “Aye, of my life in another state of existence; and that seems to hearts—yearning hearts of flesh—so distant and so vague!” “No; I spoke of your coming years in this world. ‘Godliness is profitable unto all things—having the promise of the life that NOW IS as well as of that which is to come.’ Wait patiently for the Lord—He can lift you out of this ‘horrible pit,’ this ‘miry clay,’ and set your ‘feet upon a rock.’” There was something in the strong, earnest, cheerful faith of this noble girl, who had herself received so terrible a shock, that cheered and strengthened and inspired the mourning woman to whom she spoke. Estelle had always had strength to _suffer_, but now the cordial clasp of Barbara’s hand, the earnest tones of her voice, the cheerful confidence of her promise, gave the sufferer strength to _hope_. Feeling now that she would best serve Lady Montressor by withdrawing and leaving her to take repose or refreshment, Barbara, renewing her promises to keep Lord Montressor away from the house, took leave. Estelle sank upon her knees beside the bed, and burying her face in the bed-clothes, prayed. Presently Susan came in with breakfast, which she inferred that her lady would choose upon this morning to have served in her chamber. At Susan’s earnest entreaty, Lady Montressor compelled herself to swallow a little coffee and a morsel of bread and jelly, and then pushed the waiter from her sight, and turned away. “Close the front door; keep the house dark and quiet. I will, after awhile, go into the front parlor and sit by the window, where, without being seen, I may look out upon the sea,” said the lady, as she dismissed her attendant. What a long, weary, trying day! Barbara Brande went over the house and over the grounds, in consultation with Lady Montressor’s maid upon various matters relating to repairs and alterations that required their mutual care. Lord Montressor, accompanied by little Edwy, and attended by his groom with the dogs and guns, roamed far and wide through the woods behind the Headland.