She was afraid of herself.
She said she would try another year, and she did, and then she felt safe; and one day she told her mistress all her story, and how strong the yearning had come upon her for her husband and her home again.
And then the lady put that advertisement in the paper, and Tom and his wife came together again, as he always believed they would, and now there isn’t a happier home in all England.
Tom works on the lady’s estate, and is a great favourite with her, and he has a cottage all his own, with roses and a big garden, and only the other day he sent me the loveliest pumpkin of his own growing, and with it was a letter from his wife thanking me for——
* * * * *
The beer sour! Who says so? Mr. Wilkins? Let me taste it. So it is; it’s the thunderstorm. I suppose the whole lot’s gone wrong. Harry! Harry! Where’s your master? Up in the billiard-room? Good gracious! isn’t that billiard-table fitted up yet? The men have been at it all day!
CHAPTER XIII.
A LOVE STORY.
If there is one thing that is unpleasant in a small hotel, it is to have anybody very ill in it. I dare say it is unpleasant in a big hotel; but there it isn’t noticed so much, as, of course, nothing is noticed much in a large place, which makes up hundreds of beds every night.
A gentleman, who used to stay with us now and then—an artist, who had been all over the world nearly, and every year went away abroad—was very fond of gossiping with us of an evening, and he told me a lot about these big hotels, which was very interesting, and especially so to Harry and myself, we being in the hotel business, though, of course, only in a small way, compared with the huge concerns that call themselves Grand Hotel Something or other, and are small towns.