"Tell me," she whispered, a little later, "am I at all now like the little girl in Gower-street that you used to know?"

"Not a bit," he answered, kissing her. "You are dearer, sweeter, lovelier than any little girl in Gower-street or anywhere else in the whole wide world."

"And you forgive me for my foolishness?"

"My darling," he said, "your foolishness was nothing to my own. And if you can bear to tie yourself to a blind man, so many years older than yourself, who has proved himself the most arrogant and conceited fool alive----"

"Hush!" said Kitty. "I shall not allow you to speak in that way--of the man I love."

"Kiss me, then, for the first time in your life, Kitty, and I will say no more."

And so they married and went down to Vivian Court in Devonshire, where they live and flourish still, the happiest of the happy. Never more happy than when Brian and Elizabeth came to spend a week with them, bringing a pair of sturdy boys--Bernard and Richard they are called--to play with Kitty's little girl upon the velvet lawns and stately terraces of Vivian Court. Kitty is already making plans for the future union of Bernard Luttrell and her own little Angela; but her husband shakes his head, and laughingly tells her that planned marriages never come to good.

"I thought all marriages had to be planned," says Kitty, innocently.

"Mine was not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I was led into it--quite against my will, madam--by a tricksy, wilful sprite, who would have her own way----"

"Say that you have not repented it, Rupert," she whispers, looking up at him with the fond, sorrowful eyes that he cannot see.

"My own love," he answers, taking her in his arms and kissing her, "you make the sunshine of my life; and as long as you are near me I am thoroughly and unspeakably content."

Kitty knows that it is true, although she weeps sometimes in secret at the thought that he will never look upon his little daughter's face. But everyone says that the tiny Angela is the image of Kitty herself as a child; and, therefore, when the mother wishes to describe the winning face and dancing eyes, she tells Rupert that he has only to picture to himself once more--"the little girl that he used to know in Gower Street."

CHAPTER LII.

"THE END CROWNS ALL, AND THAT IS YET TO COME."

And what of Angela Vivian, the elder? Angela, whose heart was said to be buried in a grave?

After Hugo Luttrell's death, she remained for some time at Netherglen, sitting a great deal in Mrs. Luttrell's room and trying to resume the daughter-like ways which had grown so natural to her. But she was driven slowly to perceive that she was by no means necessary to Mrs. Luttrell's happiness. Mrs. Luttrell loved her still, but her heart had gone out vehemently to Brian and Elizabeth; and when either of them was within call she wanted nothing else. Brian and Elizabeth would gladly have kept Angela with them for evermore, but it seemed to her that her duty lay now rather with her brother than with those who were, after all, of no kith or kin to her. She returned, therefore, to Rupert's house in Kensington, and lived there until his marriage took place.

She was sorry for one thing--that the friendship between herself and Percival Heron seemed to be broken. The words which she had spoken to him before Hugo's death had evidently made a very strong impression upon Percival's mind. He looked guilty and uncomfortable when he spoke to her; his manner became unusually abrupt, and at last she noticed that, if she happened to come into a room which he occupied, he immediately made an excuse for leaving it. She had very few opportunities of seeing him at all; but every time she met him, his avoidance of her became so marked that she was hurt and grieved by it. But she could not do anything to mend matters; and so she waited and was silent.

She heard, on her return to Kensington, that he had been a great deal to her brother's house, and had done much for Rupert's comfort. But as soon as he knew that she intended to stay in London he began to discontinue his visits. It was very evident that he had determined to see as little of her as possible. And, by-and-bye, he never came at all. For full three months before Kitty's engagement to Rupert Percival did not appear at the pleasant house in Kensington.

Angela was sitting alone, however, one day when he was announced. He came in, glanced round with a vexed and irritated air, and made some sort of apology.

"I came to see Rupert. I thought that you were away," he said.

"And, therefore, you came?" she said, with a little smile. "It was very good of you to come when you thought he would be lonely."

"I did not mean that exactly."

"No? I wish you would come to see him a little oftener, Mr. Heron; he misses your visits very much."

"He won't miss them long, he will soon get used to doing without me."

"But why should he?"

"Because I am going away."

"Where are you going?" said Angela, turning to look at him.

"To California," he answered grimly.

She paused for a moment, and then said in a tranquil tone, "Oh, no."

"No? Why not?" said Percival, smiling a little in spite of himself.

"I think that if you go you will be back again in six months."

"Ah? You think I have no constancy in me; no resolution; no manliness."

"Indeed, I think nothing so dreadful. But California is not the place where I can imagine a man of your tastes being happy. Were you so very happy on the Rocas Reef?"

"That has nothing to do with it. I should have been happy if I had had enough to do. I want some active work."

"Can you not find that in England?"

"I daresay I might. I hate England. I have nothing to keep me in England."

"But what has happened?" asked Angela. "You did not talk in this way when you came from the Rocas Reef."

"Because I did not know what a fool I could make of myself."

She glanced at him with a faint, sweet smile. "You alarm me, Mr. Heron,"

she said, very tranquilly. "What have you been doing?"

Percival started up from the low seat in which he had placed himself, walked to the window, and then came back to her side and looked at her.

He was standing in one of his most defiant attitudes, with his hands thrust into his pockets, and a deep dent on his brow.

"I will tell you what I have been doing," he said, in a curiously dogged tone. "I'll give you my history for the last year or two. It isn't a creditable one. Will you listen to it or not?"

"I will listen to it," said Angela.

She looked at him with serene, meditative eyes, which calmed him almost against his will as he proceeded.

"I'll tell you, then," he said. "I nearly wrecked three lives through my own selfish obstinacy. I almost broke a woman's heart and sacrificed my honour----"

"Almost? Nearly?" said Angela, gently. "That is possible, but you saw your mistake in time. You drew back; you did not do these things."