with Jane this evening. Scawthorne in due time took his departure, with many expressions of good-will, many assurances that nothing could please him better than to be of service to Bessie and her husband.
“He wished me to say good-bye to you for him,” said Bessie, when Jane came back from her work.
So the romance in her life was over. Michael Snowdon’s wealth had melted away; with it was gone for ever the hope of realising his high projects. All passed into the world of memory, of dream,—all save the spirit which had ennobled him, the generous purpose bequeathed to those two hearts which had loved him best.
To his memory all days were sacred; but one, that of his burial, marked itself for Jane as the point in each year to which her life was directed, the saddest, yet bringing with it her supreme solace.
A day in early spring, cloudy, cold. She left the workroom in the dinner-hour, and did not return. But instead of going to Hanover Street, she walked past Islington Green, all
