This was distressingly vague, for no explanation of Kingsley's moody reflection was forthcoming. It did not even appear that he was drawing consolation, as he had often done during his absence, from the thought that Nansie was ever ready with open arms to comfort him. "Instead of advancing myself," Kingsley wrote, "by the step I have taken, I have thrown myself back. It is a miserable confession to make, but there it is, and wherever I go I see, not the shadow, but the actual presentments of misery and injustice. Can any man inform me under what conditions of life happiness is to be found?" As was to be expected, the letter was not wanting in affectionate endearments and in expressions of joy at the birth of their child. "He is miserable," thought Nansie, because we are not together. "When we are once more united, will it be wise to consent to another separation?" She felt that he had need for the companionship of a stronger nature than his own, and she prayed for the time to come quickly when she would be with him to keep his courage from fainting within him. The very next day she was comforted by the receipt of another letter from Kingsley, in which was displayed his more cheerful, and perhaps more careless characteristics. "What could I have been thinking of," he said, "when I wrote you such a strange, stupid letter as I did yesterday? I must have lost my wits, and I hasten to atone for it by sending you another in a better and more natural vein. Burn the first, my dear Nansie, so that it may not be in existence to reproach me. A nice piece of inconsistency you have married, my dear! I do not remember ever to have been so cast down as I have been for two or three days past; but I should keep that to myself, and not burden you with a share of my despondency. It has been my habit always to look with a light spirit upon circumstances, whether they were in my favor or against me; and if I am to replace that by becoming savage and morose, I shall be laying up for myself a fine stock of unhappiness. So I determine, for your sake and mine, and for the sake of your dear little bairn, to whistle dull care away, and to make the best of things instead of the worst. Here am I, then, my usual self again, loving you with all my heart and soul, longing to be with you, longing to hold our dear bairn in my arms, longing to work to some good end. The question is, how to set about it, and what kind of end I am to work for. There is the difficulty--to fall into one's groove, as we have decided when we have talked about things, and then to go sailing smoothly along. Yes, that is it, and we must set ourselves to work to find out the way. I may confess to you, my dear wife, that up to this point success has not crowned my efforts; in point of fact, to put it plainly, I am thus far a failure. However, I cannot see how I am to blame. If I had had the gift of prophecy I should never have joined Mr. Seymour, but how was one to tell what