‘Six months ago I passed out of this gate,’ said he, ‘a proud, angry, disappointed man; I come back sadder and wiser; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies round—a world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me: let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honourable living; in such doom I yet see some hardship, but no degradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal dishonour. It is not so now; I know the difference. Ruin is an evil, but one for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months—not an hour longer. If things by that time alter—which is not probable; if fetters, which now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade (of all things the most unlikely to happen)—I might conquer in this long struggle yet—I might— Good God! what might I not do? But the thought is a brief madness: let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune’s roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will go with me. Will none but Louis go? I cannot tell—I have no right to ask.’

He entered the house.

It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors—starless and moonless twilight; for, though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fast-locked. The mill-dam, too, was frozen; the Hollow was very still; indoors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in the kitchen.

‘Hortense,’ said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him off with his coat, ‘I am pleased to come home.’

Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective; still, whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect.

He sat down, but soon rose again; he went to the window; he came back to the fire.

‘Hortense!’

‘Mon frère?’

‘This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant— unusually bright, somehow.’

‘It is true, brother. I have had the whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence.’

‘Sister, I think on this first day of your return home you ought to have a friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place.’

‘True, brother? if it were not late, I might send for Miss Mann.’

‘So you might; but it really is too late to disturb that good lady, and the evening is much too cold for her to come out.’

‘How thoughtful in you, dear Gérard! We must put it off till another day.’

‘I want someone to-day, dear sister—some quiet guest who would tire neither of us.’

‘Miss Ainley?’

‘An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the Rectory with a request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening with you.’

‘Would it not be better to-morrow, dear brother?’