After that last walk in Gobblegoose Wood, after Lady Tringle’s unnecessary journey to Stalham on the Friday, and the last day’s hunting with Sir Harry’s hounds — which took place on the Saturday — Ayala again became anxious to go home. Her anxiety was in its nature very different from that which had prompted her to leave Stalham on an appointed day lest she should seem to be waiting for the coming of Colonel Stubbs. “No; I don’t want to run away from him any more,” she said to Lady Albury. “I want to be with him always, and I hope he won’t run away from me. But I’ve got to be somewhere where I can think about it all for a little time.”

“Can’t you think about it here?”

“No — one can never think about a thing where it has all taken place. I must be up in my own little room in Kingsbury Crescent, and must have Aunt Margaret’s work around me — so that I may realise what is going to come. Not but what I mean to do a great deal of work always.”

“Mend his stockings?”

“Yes — if he wears stockings. I know he doesn’t. He always wears socks. He told me so. Whatever he has, I’ll mend — or make if he wants me. I can bake and I can brew; And I can make an Irish stew; wash a shirt and iron it too. ”

Then, as she sang her little song, she clapped her hands together.

“Where did you get all your poetry?”

“He taught me that. We are not going to be fine people — except sometimes when we may be invited to Stalham. But I must go on Thursday, Lady Albury. I came for a week, and I have been here ever since the middle of February. It seems years since the old woman told me I was perverse, and he said that she was right.”

“Think how much you have done since that time.”

“Yes, indeed. I very nearly destroyed myself — didn’t I?”

“Not very nearly.”

“I thought I had. It was only when you showed me his letter on that Sunday morning that I began to have any hopes. I wonder what Mr Greene preached about that morning. I didn’t hear a word. I kept on repeating what he said in the postscript.”

“Was there a postscript?”

“Of course there was. Don’t you remember?”

“No, indeed; not I.”

“The letter would have been nothing without the postscript. He said that Croppy was to come back for me. I knew he wouldn’t say that unless he meant to be good to me. And yet I wasn’t quite sure of it. I know it now; don’t I? But I must go, Lady Albury. I ought to let Aunt Margaret know all about it.” Then it was settled that she should go on the Thursday — and on the Thursday she went. As it was now considered quite wrong that she should travel by the railway alone — in dread, probably, lest the old lady should tell her again how perverse she had been — Colonel Stubbs accompanied her. It had then been decided that the wedding must take place at Stalham, and many messages were sent to Mr and Mrs Dosett assuring them that they would be made very welcome on the occasion. “My own darling Lucy will be away at that time with her own young man,” said Ayala, in answer to further invitations from Lady Albury.

“And so you’ve taken Colonel Stubbs at last,” said her Aunt Margaret.

“He has taken me, aunt. I didn’t take him.”

“But you refused him ever so often.”

“Well — yes. I don’t think I quite refused him.”

“I thought you did.”

“It was a dreadful muddle, Aunt Margaret — but it has come right at last, and we had better not talk about that part of it.”

“I was so sure you didn’t like him.”

“Not like him? I always liked him better than anybody else in the world that I ever saw.”

“Dear me!”

“Of course I shouldn’t say so if it hadn’t come right at last. I may say whatever I please about it now, and I declare that I always loved him. A girl can be such a fool! I was, I know. I hope you are glad, aunt.”

“Of course I am. I am glad of anything that makes you happy. It seemed such a pity that, when so many gentlemen were falling in love with you all round, you couldn’t like anybody.”

“But I did like somebody, Aunt Margaret. And I did like the best — didn’t I?” In answer to this Mrs Dosett made no reply, having always had an aunt’s partiality for poor Tom, in spite of all his chains.

Her uncle’s congratulations were warmer even than her aunt’s.

“My dear girl,” he said, I am rejoiced indeed that you should have before you such a prospect of happiness. I always felt how sad for you was your residence here, with two such homely persons as your aunt and myself.”

“I have always been happy with you,” said Ayala — perhaps straining the truth a little in her anxiety to be courteous. “And I know”, she added, how much Lucy and I have always owed you since poor papa’s death.”

“Nevertheless, it has been dull for a young girl like you. Now you will have your own duties, and if you endeavour to do them properly the world will never be dull to you.” And then there were some few words about the wedding. “We have no feeling, my dear,” said her uncle, “except to do the best we can for you. We should have been glad to see you married from here if that had suited. But, as this lover of yours has grand friends of his own, I dare say their place may be the better.” Ayala could hardly explain to her uncle that she had acceded to Lady Albury’s proposal because, by doing so, she would spare him the necessary expense of the wedding.

But Ayala’s great delight was in meeting her sister. The two girls had not seen each other since the engagement of either of them had been ratified by their friends. The winter and spring, as passed by Lucy at Merle Park, had been very unhappy for her. Things at Merle Park had not been pleasant to any of the residents there, and Lucy had certainly had her share of the unpleasantness. Her letters to Ayala had not been triumphant when Aunt Emmeline had more than once expressed her wish to be rid of her, and when the news reached her that Uncle Tom and Hamel had failed to be gracious to each other. Nor had Ayala written in a spirit of joy before she had been able to recognise the Angel of Light in Jonathan Stubbs. But now they were to meet after all their miseries, and each could be triumphant.

It was hard for them to know exactly how to begin. To Lucy, Isadore Hamel was, at the present moment, the one hero walking the face of this sublunary globe; and to Ayala, as we all know, Jonathan Stubbs was an Angel of Light, and, therefore, more even than a hero. As each spoke, the “He’s” intended took a different personification; so that to anyone less interested than the young ladies themselves there might be some confusion as to which “He” might at that moment be under discussion. “It was bad”, said Lucy, when Uncle Tom told him to sell those magnificent conceptions of his brain by auction!”

“I did feel for him certainly,” said Ayala.

“And then when he was constrained to say that he would take me at once without any preparation because Aunt Emmeline wanted me to go, I don’t suppose any man ever behaved more beautifully than he did.”

“Yes indeed,” said Ayala. And then she felt herself constrained to change the subject by the introduction of an exaggerated superlative in her sister’s narrative. Hamel, no doubt, had acted beautifully, but she was not disposed to agree that nothing could be more beautiful. “Oh, Lucy,” she said, I was so miserable when he went away after that walk in the wood. I thought he never would come back again when I had behaved so badly. But he did. Was not that grand in him?”

“I suppose he was very fond of you.”

“I hope he was. I hope he is. But what should I have done if he had not come back? No other man would have come back after that. You never behaved unkindly to Isadore?”

“I think he would have come back a thousand times,” said Lucy; “only I cannot imagine that I should ever have given him the necessity of coming back even a second. But then I had known him so much longer.”

“It wasn’t that I hadn’t known him long enough,” said Ayala. “I seemed to know all about him almost all at once. I knew how good he was, and how grand he was, long before I had left the Marchesa up in London. But I think it astounded me that such a one as he should care for me.” And so it went on through an entire morning, each of the sisters feeling that she was bound to listen with rapt attention to the praises of the other’s “him” if she wished to have an opportunity of singing those of her own.

But Lucy’s marriage was to come first by more than two months, and therefore in that matter she was allowed precedence. And at her marriage Ayala would be present, whereas with Ayala’s Lucy would have no personal concern. Though she did think that Uncle Tom had been worse than any vandal in that matter of selling her lover’s magnificent works, still she was ready to tell of his generosity. In a manner of his own he had sent the money which Hamel had so greatly needed, and had now come forward to provide, with a generous hand, for the immediate necessities, and more than the necessities, of the wedding. It was not only that she was to share the honours of............