"And they have had a letter from Italy." "Well, Philip?" she said, laying her head against his cheek, as one arm drew her nearer and nearer, while the other toyed with the boy's curls. "Well, darling, it is nothing; but I could not help it: the news seemed to cause me a vague feeling of uneasiness--nothing but a passing cloud-- for thoughts will go backwards sometimes. Not complimentary, that," he said, laughing; "but I meant no more, love, than a general reference to old troubles." "I know--I know," she said, with unruffled countenance; "but what was the news?" "Well, dear, it was that workmen are to be sent up to the Castle directly; and there's to be painting, and paper-hanging, and re-furnishing, and Heaven knows what beside; and I was thinking that Merland has done for years past now uncommonly well with the Castle in its present state, and that, if I had my will, it should remain as it is." "And all this means, dear?" said Mrs Norton, quietly. "Yes, of course," laughed Norton. "Now, did you ever see anything like the dog? Both his fingers in the ink! Yes, it means, of course, that after five years of absence the Gernons are coming home." Book 1, Chapter IX. ADA'S PROMISE. The old love of change and adventure, which in earlier life had led Philip Norton into seeking a commission in the Indian army, clung to him still, and sometimes for days--sometimes even for weeks together, he would absent himself from home, journeying north or south, or even going abroad without making the slightest preparation. He would laugh on his return, and own that it was eccentric; but, perhaps, before many weeks had elapsed, he would again take his departure, while Ada never complained, for by constant study of his character, she felt that to some extent she now knew him well. He had given up all his former pursuits; ambition, too, had been set aside, and he had buried himself in the old Lincolnshire retreat, apparently content with his wife's companionship--for visitors seldom crossed the steps of Merland Hall. "I am not fit for society," Norton used to say, with a smile; and seeing how at times an unsettled, feverish fit would come upon him, resulting in some far off, aimless journey, from which he would return happy and content, Ada quietly forbore all murmurings, accepting her fate, thankful for the quiet, tender affection he displayed towards her. She used at last to laugh about his hurried departures, and long, purposeless trips, telling him that they acted as safety-valves for letting off the pent-up excitement of his nature, and he, taking her words in all seriousness, would earnestly accept her definition. "I know it seems strange and wild, and even unkind to you, dear; but I think sometimes that if I were chained down entirely to one place I should lose my reason. These fits only come on at times; perhaps during a walk, and then the inclination is so strong that I do not feel either the power or desire to battle with it."