Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a "tantrum," and said that we had better go home. "Go where?" she said dolefully. "Home," I replied, "to your lodgings." "My lodgings, Master Antony," she wailed. "I have no lodgings. I'm a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!" "Oh, what nonsense, Mary," I cried, hurrying her along; "don't be so foolish!"--for I was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. "Come along, do. Here!" I shouted; "cab!"--and I sighed with relief as I got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to Caroline Street, Pentonville. But even in the cab Mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion--her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home. "I dare say we shall find him upstairs," I said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of Revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back. On the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms--Revitts' one having now expanded to three--and once there, Mary gasped out: "Master Antony dear, shut and lock the door--quick--quick!" I hastily did as she bade me, and as I turned, it was to see poor Mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame. It was no noisy outburst: it was too deep for that; but the poor woman had to relieve herself of the day's disappointment and agony, and there she lay, beating down and stifling every hysterical cry that fought for exit, while her breast heaved with the terrible emotion. I was too young then to realise the full extent of the shame and abasement the poor woman must have felt, but all the same I sympathised with her deeply, and in my weak, boyish way did all I could to console her, but in vain. For quite an hour the outburst continued, till at last, quite in despair, I cried out: "Oh Mary, Mary! what can I do to comfort you?" She jumped up into a sitting position, then; threw back her dishevelled hair; wiped her eyes, and looked, in spite of her red and swollen lids, more herself. "Oh, my own dear boy," she cried, "what a wicked, selfish wretch I am!" and, catching me in her arms, she kissed me very tenderly. "There," she said with a piteous smile; "it's all over now, Master Antony, and I won't cry another drop. You're a dear, good, affectionate boy--that you are, and I'll never forget it, and you're as hungry as a hundred hunters, I know."