She would never have fought against the cruelty of changed affections if that or the treasons of an unprincipled husband had come.  His love would have been her light and life, and when that was turned away, like a northern flower that has lost its sun, she would have only hung her pretty head, and died, in her long winter.  So viewing now the ways of wisdom from a distance, I think I can see they were the best, and how that fair, young mortal, who seemed a sacrifice, was really a conqueror.

Puddock and Devereux on this eventful night, as we remember, having shaken hands at the door-steps, turned and went up stairs together, very amicably again, to the captain’s drawing-room.

So Devereux, when they returned to his lodgings, had lost much of his reserve, and once on the theme of his grief, stormed on in gusts, and lulls, and thunder, and wild upbraidings, and sudden calms; and the good-natured soul of little Puddock was touched, and though he did not speak, he often dried his eyes quietly, for grief is conversant not with self, but with the dead, and whatever is generous moves us.

’There’s no one stirring now, Puddock—­I’ll put my cloak about me and walk over to the Elms, to ask how the rector is to-night,’ said Devereux, muffling himself in his military mantle.

It was only the restlessness of grief.  Like all other pain, grief is haunted with the illusion that change means relief; motion is the instinct of escape.  Puddock walked beside him, and they went swiftly and silently together.

When they reached the other side of the bridge, and stood under the thorn-hedge fronting the leafless elms, Devereux was irresolute.

‘Would you wish me to enquire?’ asked Puddock.  Devereux held him doubtfully by the arm for a moment or two, and then said gently—­

‘No, I thank you, Puddock—­I’ll go—­yes—­I’ll go myself;’ and so Captain Devereux went up to the door.

John Tracy, at the steps, told him that he thought his master wished to speak with him; but he was not quite sure.  The tall muffled figure therefore waited at the door while John went in to tell his master, and soon returned to say that Doctor Walsingham would be much obliged to him to step into the study.

When the doctor saw Devereux, he stood up to meet him.

‘I hope, Sir,’ said Devereux, very humbly, ‘you have forgiven me.’

The doctor took his hand and shook it very hard, and said, ’There’s nothing—­we’re both in sorrow.  Everyone—­everyone is sorry, Sir, but you more.’

Devereux did not say anything, being moved, as I suppose.  But he had drawn his cloak about his face, and was looking down.

‘There was a little message—­only a word or two,’ said the doctor; ’but everything of hers is sacred.’

He turned over some papers in his desk, and chose one.  It was in Lily’s pretty handwriting.

‘I am charged with this little message.  Oh, my darling!’ and the old man cried bitterly.