The first morning was a failure, but on the second--it was sunny and
warm--he saw her sitting on a bench facing the sea. He went up
unobserved and sat down. She did not turn towards him till he said
"Mrs. Leighton!" She started and recognised him. Little was spoken as
they walked home to her lodgings, a small private house. On her way she
called at a large shop where she was employed and obtained leave of
absence until after dinner.
"At last!" said the doctor when the door was shut.
She stood gazing in silence at the dull red cinder of the dying fire.
"You put the advertisement in the Stamford Mercury?" he said.
"Yes."
"I did not see it until a day or two ago."
"I had better tell you at once. My husband, whom you knew, was
convicted of forgery, and died at Botany Bay." Her eyes still watched
the red cinders.
The Doctor's countenance showed no surprise, for no news could have had
any power over the emotion which mastered him. The long, slow years
were fulfilled. Long and slow and the fulfilment late, but the joy it
brought was the greater.
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