Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking,
however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearance
of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict
silence, and that even to Wyat--L'Amour I had better continue to call
her--Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however,
that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to
this self-denying resolve.

But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliant
starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery--gossipings, stories,
short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful
scenery of Bartram-Haugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life,
which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger
or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my
interview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated.

My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her
country-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, was
negotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between the courts of
Elverston and of Bartram.

At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak
and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire
hills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting-room. Our meeting was that
of two school-companions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in
my eyes.

What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, enquiries
and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, she
said--