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. 24, 1861.]

Laura was in the close embrace of her children, her husband silently left the room, casting upon the loving group an earnest glance which did not escape the vigilant eye of Beatrice.

He made a sign to Charles Hawkesley to follow him. But it was Beatrice who came out and closed the door.

“Come with me,” she said to Arthur.

He followed her to the drawing-room.

“You wish to speak to Charles,” she said, “but it is far better that you should speak to me, Arthur. Already there is coldness between you and him, and you are both falling back upon your pride and dignity, and five minutes more may separate you for life. You cannot quarrel with me, Arthur, and you cannot offend me. Speak to me.”

“I had but little to say to him, Beatrice, and that little was simply matter of business. But I will write.”

“Write! About what?”

“About future arrangements.”

“Arrangements. What is a man’s nature? He has still in his eyes the image of his children clinging round the neck of their mother, who is crying out her poor heart between happiness, and doubt, and misery, and he walks from the room and talks of arrangements. Do you ever love us, Arthur? Do you know what it is to love us?”

“Let me write to Charles, Beatrice,” said Lygon, in a troubled voice, “and let me go.”

“I will not try to stop you. If what you have just seen cannot do that, my words will be of little avail. Yes, dear Arthur, tell me that you called Charles to bid him draw the children away, and send her in here to you, for one moment, for one moment. O, Arthur, make us happy, make her happy, and God bless you for ever.”

“There is no happiness but in truth and trust,” said Arthur Lygon. “Sobs and tears are but hollow substitutes for those. When the sobs are hushed and the tears are dry, then begins again the doubt and the hypocrisy. I will not doom myself to such a life. Farewell, Beatrice, it may be long before we meet again, but be sure that I shall never forget your affection. Farewell.”