Aveline Gatliffe showed symptoms of discontent—she wanted some change of scene.
Her husband took a charming house at Wood-green, which he furnished, not grandly, perhaps, but with every comfort which persons in their station of life could desire.
Here he, his wife, and their child—a beautiful little boy of about three years old—were located.
Let us pay a visit to the home of the British workman.
At the door of the habitation stands a young and beautiful woman. She is barely two and twenty, but does not look even as old as that; her hair of shining brown looks like gold in the sunshine; her eyes are of violet blue; her dress is quite plain, but the homely material only showed the grace and beauty of her figure to greater advantage. Such are the most noticeable features of Aveline Gatliffe.
One might have wondered how she—living in a cottage, the wife of a man who worked hard for his daily bread—came by this dainty beauty, this delicate loveliness which would have been fit dowry for a duchess.
The young wife’s gaze was directed down the road which led to the station; the rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across this from the trees which skirted its sides.
Presently her countenance was irradiated with a smile. She heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, she hastened onwards, and in a few minutes she saw her husband in the distance.
“Ah, dearest, you’ve been waiting and watching for me. Is it not so?” cried Tom Gatliffe.
The young woman smiled and nodded; then they walked slowly home together.