Once more there was a light in the gloomy house of Chandos. The blinds were drawn up; the sunlight was allowed to shine in. He who had been the destroyer of its tranquillity and its fair name--through whom, and for whom, they had lived in dread for so many years, having, as Mrs. Penn aptly expressed it, a sword hanging perpetually over their heads, which might fall at any minute--he, the erring man, was laid to rest; and had left rest for them. With him, the fear and the dread were gone--almost the disgrace; there was no further need of secrecy, of retirement, of ghosts, of sleepwalking; there was no longer dread of a night invasion by the police. Chandos could hold up its head now in the face of day.

The deep mourning was supposed, by all save a few, to be worn for Sir Thomas Chandos. When Mrs. Chandos appeared in her widow\'s garb, people at first treated it as one of her eccentricities, but the truth got to be known in time. They put me into mourning too; and it was done in this way.

"Would you not like to wear it?" Sir Harry said to me the day he came home. "I think, as you are in the house, one of us, it might be well; also as my future wife. What do you say, Anne? Would you object?"

"Indeed I would not object: I should like to wear it. I will order----" and there the state of the case occurred to me, and I sat down in consternation.

I had not a shilling in the world. I had no money, either for mourning or for my wedding clothes. The exceeding incongruity of this order of affairs with my position as the future Lady Chandos, struck on me with shame and dismay. What would they all think of me? What reflections of meanness might even the servants not cast upon me? Tears of mortification filled my eyes, nearly dropped upon my burning cheeks.

"What\'s the matter, Anne?"

"I have no money."

Sir Harry laughed. "Don\'t cry over that, my darling. You\'ll have so much soon, you wont know what to do with it. Tell my mother of your dilemma."

I did not. Perhaps he did. In the afternoon Hill came to my room with Lady Chandos\'s dressmaker; and in two days my black things were home.

The first visitor we had at the house--and he arrived the day I put my mourning on--was Monsieur de Mellissie, looking very ill. Of course he had come after his wife, having started the instant he was able to travel. A somewhat stormy interview ensued between them; but she spoke like one accustomed to have things her own way, and he appeared rather meek beside her. He had arrived with the view of taking her back to France; she vowed and protested that she was not going home yet awhile--that all the steamers plying between the two countries should not drag her; her mamma was about to spend some time at Brighton or Scarborough, as might be agreed up on, and she purposed accompanying her: she wanted recruiting as well as other people.

Lady Chandos stepped forward to the rescue, her compassion awakened for the poor, sick, evidently suffering man. The first thing, he must go to bed and be nursed, she said; they would talk of plans afterwards. Monsieur de Mellissie was really too ill to dispute the mandate; neither did he feel inclined to do it: after his hurried journey from Paris, bed seemed as a very haven of rest.

They left the room, followed by Lady Chandos, and the next to appear was the agent, Mr. Dexter. He came in, rubbing his hot face as usual. Not that the weather put him into a heat to-day, but the news he brought.

Mr. Edwin Barley had gone away. Mr. Edwin Barley\'s servant had called upon him with a cheque for a twelve-month\'s rent and taxes, and an intimation that his master would not occupy the house again. Mr. Dexter might make what use he pleased of it. If there were any dilapidations for which Mr. Edwin Barley was legally responsible, they would be paid for on the amount being sent to him at the Oaks.

"Gone away, has he?" cried Sir Harry.

"Gone clean away, sir, bag and baggage," replied Mr. Dexter, who seemed not able to get over the surprising fact. "It\'s the oddest thing I ever knew. The furniture--it was only hired, as you may remember, Sir Harry--is already being removed out of the house. A strange whim, to be red-hot for a place one month, and run away from it the next!"

"Very," said Sir Harry, quietly.

"I suppose the truth is, he found the house so different from his own place, the Oaks, that he couldn\'t reconcile himself to stop in it," resumed Mr. Dexter, talking as fast as ever. "A magnificent place that, his servant tells me. He has another, too, close by it, that he keeps up as well. I pressed the question on the servant--a most respectable man, quite superior, Sir Harry--what could be taking his master away; but he said he didn\'t know, unless it might be that he was disappointed at finding the shooting here so poor. The preserves at the Oaks are hardly to be matched in the kingdom. Any way, Sir Harry, he\'s gone, whatever may have taken him."

As Mr. Dexter went out of the room, disburdened of his news, Sir Harry came to the window where I sat at work, laid his hand upon my head, and made me look up at him.

"Is that little heart of yours relieved by the tidings?"

"Yes; oh, yes. I have not dreaded Mr. Edwin Barley so much the last few days; but I am glad he is gone. I was always fearing that he might apply for some power that would enable him legally to take me hence."

"In that case I must have got legal power on my side in the shape of a special licence, and married you romantically in the great drawing-room at twelve at night, and so made you secure in that way. I think even now it may be safer, Anne, not to delay the ceremony long."

I looked up in consternation, believing he really thought there might still be danger, and met the expression in his eyes. Mine fell on my work again. I began sewing fast.

"Don\'t you think Monsieur de Mellissie looks very ill, Sir Harry?"

"I do; but low fever reduces a man greatly. When are you going to leave off the \'Sir?\' \'Sir Harry\' is worse than \'Mr. Chandos\' was."

"But what can I call you?"

"I was christened Harry."

"I shall learn it in time," I answered, shyly, "through hearing the others say it."

"Anne, do you know what poor George said the last night of his life?" he asked, after a pause.

"No. Was it about me?"

"It was about you: when you were the little thing he met at Hallam. He said you were a sweet, loveable child: truthful, honest, and good. I think you are the same still."

I bent my blushing face: praises were so sweet from him. Sir Harry suddenly clasped me to him with a deep sound--quite a cry of love; and I had to kneel down afterwards and hunt for my needle.

A few mornings subsequent to this, the post brought a packet addressed to Sir Harry Chandos. When I saw it was Mr. Edwin Barley\'s handwriting, my heart failed me. Sir Harry read it twice over; glanced at me, and put it in his pocket. Monsieur de Mellissie was considerably better; the change of air and scene had almost restored him. He did not yet get up to breakfast. I, Emily, and her brother took it alone. Plans had been under discussion for some days. Sir Harry\'s marriage was already talked of openly.

"Mamma says it will be Scarborough," observed Emily, following out the train of thought she had been pursuing while Sir Harry read his letter. "She shall go there for a month, and get to Heneage Grange for Christmas. Ethel goes with her of course, and so shall I. Alfred also; she has been inviting him. And you, Anne--where do you go?"

I could not tell. I had neither money nor friends. Except the Miss Barlieus.

"Where are you going, Anne? Don\'t you hear me?" she cried, with some impatience. "Even if mamma remained at Chandos, you could not, under the same roof with Harry.............