It was in this room that he left his niece Edith when he set out for Woodchurch; and, as she sat--with her arm fallen somewhat listlessly over the back of the low sofa, the light coming in from the window strong upon her left cheek, and the rest in shade, with her rich colouring and her fine features, the high-toned expression of soul upon her brow, and the wonderful grace of her whole form and attitude--she would have made a fine study for any of those dead artists whose works lived around her. She heard the wheels of the carriage roll away; but she gave no thought to the question of whither her uncle had gone, or why he took her not with him, as he usually did. She was glad of it, in fact; and people seldom reason upon that with which they are well pleased. Her whole mind was directed to her own situation, and to the feelings which the few words of conversation she had had with her sister had aroused. She thought of him she loved, with the intense, eager longing to behold him once more--but once, if so it must be--which perhaps only a woman's heart can fully know. To be near him, to hear him speak, to trace the features she had loved, to mark the traces of Time's hand, and the lines that care and anxiety, and disappointment and regret, she knew must be busily working--oh, what a boon it would be! Then her mind ran on, led by the light hand of Hope, along the narrow bridge of association, to ask herself--if it would be such delight to see him and to hear him speak--what would it be to soothe, to comfort, to give him back to joy and peace! The dream was too bright to last, and it soon faded. He was near her, and yet he did not come; he was in the same land, in the same district; he had gazed up to the house where she dwelt; if he had asked whose it was, the familiar name--the name once so dear--must have sounded in his ear; and yet he did not come. A few minutes of time, a few steps of his horse, would have brought him to where she was; but he had turned away,--and Edith's eyes filled with tears. She rose and wiped them off, saying, "I will think of something else;" and she went up and gazed at a picture. It was a Salvator Rosa--a fine painting, though not by one of the finest masters. There was a rocky scene in front, with trees waving in the wind of a fierce storm, while two travellers stood beneath a bank and a writhing beech tree, scarcely seeming to find shelter even there from the large grey streams of rain that swept across the foreground. But, withal, in the distance were seen some majestic old towers and columns, with a gleam of golden light upon the edge of the sky; and Hope, never wearying of her kindly offices, whispered to Edith's heart, "In life, as in that picture, there may be sunshine behind the storm."