Constance.—"Oh, thank Heaven!" She bows her head with a sob, upon his shoulder, and then lifts her tearful eyes to his: "Help me to get to him! I am weak." She totters and Bartlett mechanically passes a supporting arm about her. "Help me, and don't—don't leave me!" She moves with him a few paces toward the door, her head drooping; but all at once she raises her face again, stares at him, stiffly releases herself, and with a long look of reproach walks proudly away to the other door, by which she vanishes without a word.
Bartlett, remaining planted, with a bewildered glance at his empty arm: "Well, I wonder who and what and where I am!"
[III.]
DISSOLVING VIEWS.
I.
General Wyatt and Mrs. Wyatt.
In the parlour stands an easel with a canvas of inordinate dimensions upon it, and near this a small table, with a fresh box of colours in tubes, and a holiday outfit of new brushes, pallet, and other artist's materials, evidently not the property of Bartlett. Across the room from this apparatus is stretched Constance's easy-chair, towards which General Wyatt, bearing some marks of his recent accident in a bandaged wrist and a stiff leg, stumps heavily, supported by Mrs. Wyatt. Beside this chair is the centre-table of the parlour, on which are an open box of cigars, and a pile of unopened newspapers.
General Wyatt, dropping into the chair with a groan.—"Well, my dear! I feel uncommonly ashamed of myself, taking Constance's chair in this manner. Though there's a great consolation in thinking she doesn't need it any longer." Settling himself more comfortably in the chair, and laying his stick across his knees: "Margaret, I begin to be very happy about Constance. I haven't had so light a heart for many a long day. The last month has made a wonderful change in her. She is almost like her old self again."