We never know how unexpectedly Hope may pay us a gorgeous visit; how often she comes when we least expect her. With death barring his way, and funeral plumes crossing his path, Arthur Phillips could hardly have expected Hope to come by his side and whisper so confidently of happiness almost beyond his most sanguine thoughts. Once or twice in the darkness, once or twice between the acts of the day’s solemn drama, a faint whisper had lighted up his soul as we have seen; but here he stood at last almost in the full blaze of hope, and the light had come from the darkest of all places, in his own estimation. And so Arthur sat and pondered, and Mrs. Somerton quietly regarding him, dosed off into a quiet slumber, induced by the fatigue of thought and conversation which Arthur’s visit had occasioned. Far away amongst the Lincolnshire meadows, where the long, lazy river flowed by the corn-fields and lingered amongst the reeds and rushes; far away in the green and golden fields, and over the brown and loamy furrows; hemmed in by short hedges, and dotted here and there with ricks of hay and straw and stray clumps of trees; far away amongst Lincolnshire homesteads, and mills with their swinging sails, and square-towered churches, and broad lanes, and long teams of horses dragging well-stocked waggons; far away in the past the mind of the bailiff’s wife was wandering, and the dream was a happy one, for it dealt with childhood only. * * * * * Arthur stole out whilst she slept. The mists had crept about the valley and were hovering over the hill-tops. He started off to visit some of the familiar scenes where he had sat in the long summer days, wondering and hoping and painting in hazy romantic dreams which were not all happiness. His thoughts were strangely mixed and intricate now: a host of anxious feelings had been awakened which he could not control, and which he could hardly understand. * * * * * “Gone--are you gone?” said Mrs. Somerton, awaking from her brief sleep. “No, I am here,” said her husband, removing a crape hatband from his hat and laying it upon the table. “Ah, it’s you, Luke; I have had Mr. Phillips, the painter, here.” “Yes,” said Luke--“yes; and what has he to say for himself?” asked the bailiff. “Not much; I think I have done all the talking, Luke. And so you have buried the poor gentleman?” she went on, mournfully. “Yes, poor fellow; not many better men ever were buried than he,” said Luke. “And now--now they are going to read the will, I suppose?” “They were all going into the dining-room as I came past. The lawyer asked me to come in; but I thought you’d be lonely, Sarah, and so I came home.” Mrs. Somerton could not help thinking that Luke had better have stayed and heard the will read; but she was too considerate now, to say so. “You are very kind, Luke; but how shall we know all about it?” “Oh, I forgot that; I’ll go back,” said Luke.