He gave Netta ten pounds and told her on no account to disclose her real name, or give a clue to his having been with her in those lodgings, if she should see Rowland.
'But you will be back soon?' said poor Netta.
'In a few days I hope, or else I will send for you. I must leave to-morrow morning at daybreak.'
A few weeks ago and neither husband nor wife would have cared how long the separation might be, now it seemed death for each to part.
Howel kissed his child again and again as she lay sleeping in her dingy bed, and held Netta long in his arms. The only human being who really loved him! Him, weak, wild, sinful, godless! yet with one divine spark rekindling in his breast—the spark of human love.
He laid his wife, fainting, by the side of her child on the bed, bathed her temples with water until he saw that she would revive, and then rushed out into the dirty streets, under the misty, murky morning sky, a reckless and miserable man.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE ACCOUNTANT.
'I never shall get through these accounts!' is the soliloquy of Miss Gwynne, to whom we return with much pleasure, on my part, at least, after a separation of six years.