It was evening. Mr. Loveday had not returned from his daily labors, and Nansie had put her baby asleep in her cradle, and had gone out to execute some small household duties. She hurried through them as quickly as possible, and, returning home, had almost reached the street door of the house in which she lived, when a voice at her back said, "It _is_ Nansie!" The pulses of her heart seemed to stop. It was her husband's voice, and so overcome was she by this sudden ray of sunshine that, when she turned, she could scarcely see before her. Again the voice came to her ears; the gay, light, happy voice of old, which expressed only joy and sweetness, and in which there was no note of sadness or sorrow. "Why, Nansie--it _is_ Nansie! I was born under a lucky star." And still, without seeing the speaker, she felt herself drawn to the heart of the one man in the world she loved--of the dear husband and the father of the babe sleeping peacefully at home. "Oh, Kingsley! Is it you, is it you?" "Of course it is, Nansie. Who else should it be? But it is very perplexing and puzzling; I don't quite see my way out of it. Tell me, Nansie--you expected me, did you not?" "Yes, Kingsley, yes--for so long, for so long!" "No, no, not for so long. Why, it can have been but a few days since I went away! Let me see--how was it? We had to look things in the face, and we did, and we agreed that something must be done, and then--and then--upon my word, Nansie, I think I am growing worse than ever; I not only fly off at a tangent, but I seem to be afflicted by an imp of forgetfulness. What does it matter, though? I have found you, and we are together again." During this speech Nansie's eyes were fixed upon his face in tender love and thoughtfulness. His words were so at variance with the true nature of her position and his that she would have been unable to understand them if love had not brought wisdom to her. There was in Kingsley's eyes the same whimsical expression as of old, there was in his manner the same light-heartedness which had enabled him to look upon the future without anxiety, the tones of his voice were clear and gay, but he bore about him an unmistakable air of poverty. His clothes were worn threadbare, his hands were attenuated and almost transparent, and the lines of his face denoted that he had passed through some great suffering. He evinced no personal consciousness of these signs, and seemed to be at peace and in harmony with himself and all around him. "Are you well, Kingsley?" asked Nansie, solicitously. "Well, my love? Never was better in my life, and now that I have found you, there is nothing more to wish for. And yet--and yet--" He passed his hand across his forehead, and looked at her in a kind of humorous doubt. "Do you observe anything singular in me, my love?" It would have been cruel to have answered him with the direct truth. It was from the deep well of pity with which her heart was filled that she drew forth the words,