“It was the same thing, lady; we were to live together, and to support each other.”

“But what was your thought, my dear girl, in bringing her here?”

“I told you, lady, that in her own native land, among her own kinsfolk, she might be comforted, and might resume her girlhood’s thoughts and habits, and learn to forget the strange, dark passages of her short married life, passed in a foreign country.”

“But, my dear girl, did you not know, had you never heard that her uncle disowned her for marrying against his will?”

“Something of that I certainly heard from Edith, lady, when I first proposed to her to come home.  But she was very weak, and her thoughts very rambling, poor thing—­she could not stick to a point long, and I overruled and guided her—­I could not believe but that her friends would take her poor widowed heart to their homes again.  But if it should be otherwise, still—­”

“Well?—­still?”

“Why, I cannot regret having brought her to her native soil—­for, if we find no friends in America, we have left none in England—­a place besides full of the most harrowing recollections, from which this place is happily free.  America also offers a wider field for labor than England does, and if her friends behave badly, why I will work for her, and—­for her child if it should live.”

“Dear Marian, you must not think by what I said just now, that I am not a friend of Edith.  I am, indeed.  I love her almost as if she were my own daughter.  I incurred my husband’s anger by remaining with her after her marriage until she sailed.  I will not fail her now, be sure.  Personally, I will do my utmost for her.  I will also try to influence her uncle in her favor.  And now, my dear, it is getting very late, and there is a long ride, and a dreadful road before me.  The commodore is already anxious for me, I know, and if I keep him waiting much longer, he will be in no mood to be persuaded by me.  So I must go.  To-morrow, my dear, a better home shall be found for you and Edith.  That I promise upon my own responsibility.  And, now, my dear, excellent girl, good-by.  I will see you again in the morning.”

And Mrs. Waugh took leave.

“No,” thundered Commodore Waugh, thrusting his head forward and bringing his stick down heavily upon the floor.  “No, I say!  I will not be bothered with her or her troubles.  Don’t talk to me!  I care nothing about them!  What should her trials be to me?  The precious affair has turned out just as I expected it would!  Only what I did not expect was that we should have her back upon our hands!  I wonder at Edith!  I thought she had more pride than to come back to me for comfort after leaving as she did!”

This was all the satisfaction Mrs. Waugh got from Old Nick, when she had related to him the sorrowful story of Edith’s widowhood and return, and had appealed to his generosity in her behalf.  But he unbent so far as to allow Edith and Marian to be installed at Mrs. L’Oiseau’s cottage, and even grudgingly permitted Henrietta to settle a pension upon her.