“And you, Herbert,” said Julius, “can I ask you to come back to me, now that we shall have a fair amount to do between us?”

Herbert smiled and shook his head, as he took out an advertisement for a curate in one of the blackest parishes of the Black Country.  “I’ve written to answer that,” he said.

Julius did not try to hinder him.  What had been exaggerated had parsed away, and he was now a brave man going forth in his strength and youth to the service he had learnt to understand; able still keenly to enjoy, but only using pleasure as an incidental episode for the delight of others, and as subordinate to the true work of his life.

He asked for his fellow-worker, Mrs. Duncombe.  There were tidings, but disappointing ones.  She had written a long letter to Julius, full of her reasons for being received into the Roman Communion, where she rapturously declared she had for the first time found peace.  Anne and Rosamond took the change most bitterly to heart, but Julius, though believing he could have saved her from the schism, by showing her the true beauty and efficiency of her own Church, could not wonder at this effect of foreign influences on one so recently and imperfectly taught, and whose ardent nature required strong forms of whatever she took up.  And the letters she continued to write to Julius were rapturous in the cause of the Pope and as to all that she had once most contemned.  She had taken her children with her, but her husband remained tolerant, indifferent, and so probably he would do while his health lasted.

Early in the summer Frank and Eleonora were married, and a pretty little house in the outskirts of London found for them, suiting with the grace of the one and the poetry of the other.  It was a small, quiet household, but could pleasantly receive those literary friends of Frank’s whom he delighted to present to his beautiful and appreciative wife, whose sweetness and brightness grew every day under the influence of affection and confidence.  The other augury of poor Lady Tyrrell, that their holidays would be spent at Compton Hall, was fulfilled, but very pleasantly for both parties, for it was as much home to Lena as to Frank.

Miles’s geniality made all at ease that came near him, and Anne, though never a conversational person, was a quietly kind hostess, much beloved by all who had experienced her gentleness, and she had Frank and Lena to give distinction in their different ways to her London parties, as at Compton, Rosamond never failed to give everything a charm where she assisted in planning or receiving.

Rosamond would never cease to love society.  Even had she been a grandmother she would have fired at the notion of a party, enjoy, and render it enjoyable; and the mere announcement of a new face would be as stimulating to her as it was the reverse to Anne.  But she had grown into such union with her husband, and had so forgotten the Rathforlane defence, as to learn that it was pleasanter to do as he liked than to try to make him like what she did, and a look of disapproval from him would open her eyes to the flaws in any scheme, however enchanting at first.