"
"It had better be in London," said Lady Helena. "I will write to
Dora, and tell her. The very anticipation of it will make her
happy until the time arrives--she loves the children so dearly."
And again a softened thought of Dora came to her husband. Of
course she loved them. The little villa at Florence rose before
him; he saw vividly, as though he had left it but yesterday, the
pretty vine-shaded room where Dora used to sit nursing the little
ones. He remembered her sweet patience, her never-failing,
gentle love. Had he done right to wound that sad heart afresh by
taking those children from her? Was it a just and fitting reward
for the watchful love and care of those lonely years?
He would fain have pardoned her, but he could not; and he said to
himself again: "In the hour of death! I will forgive her then."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The glowing August, so hot and dusty in London, was like a dream
of beauty at Earlescourt. The tall trees gave grateful shelter,
baffling the sun's warm rays; the golden corn stood in the broad
fields ready for the sickle; the hedge-rows were filled with
flowers.
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