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amount of his
income. Neither he nor his wife hinted at it. Sophy Chantrey would
have freely given the world, had it been hers, to accompany her
husband; but there was no chance of that. A friend was going out on the
same doleful search for health; and the two were to take charge of each

other. But how to live at all while David was away? She urged that she
could manage very well on seventy or eighty pounds a year, if she and
her boy went to some cheap lodgings in a strange neighborhood, where
nobody knew them; but her husband would not listen to such a plan.
The worry and fret of his brain had grown almost to fever-height, when
his aunt made a proposal, which he accepted in impatient haste. This
was that Sophy should make her home at Bolton Villa for the full time
of his absence; on condition that Charlie, a boy of seven years old, full
of life and spirits, should be sent to school for the same term.
Sophy rebelled for a little while, but in vain. In thinking of the eighteen
long and dreary months her husband would be away, she had counted
upon having the consolation of her child's companionship. But no other
scheme presented itself; and she felt the sacrifice must be made for
David's sake. A suitable school was found for Charlie; and he was
placed in it a day or two before she had to journey down to
Southampton with her husband. No soul on deck that day was more
sorrowful than hers. David's hollow cheeks, and thin, stooping frame,
and the feeble hand that clasped hers till the last moment, made the
hope of ever seeing him again seem a mad folly. Her sick heart refused
to be comforted. He was sanguine, and spoke almost gayly of his return;
but she was filled with anguish. A strong persuasion seized upon her
that she should see his face no more; and when the bitter moment of
parting was over, she travelled back alone, heart-stricken and crushed
in spirit, to her new home under Mrs. Bolton's roof.
CHAPTER II.
ANN HOLLAND
Bolton Villa was not more than a stone's throw from the rectory and the
church. Sophy could hear the same shrieks of the martins wheeling
about the tower, and the same wintry chant of the robins amid the ivy
creeping up it. The familiar striking of the church clock and the chime
of the bells rang alike through the windows of both houses. But there
was no sound of her husband's voice and no merry shout of Charlie's,
and the difference was appalling to her. She could not endure it.

Mrs. Bolton was exceedingly proud of her villa. It had been bought
expressly to please her by the late archdeacon, and altered under her
own superintendence. Her tastes and wishes had been studied
throughout. The interior was something like a diary of her life. The
broad oak staircase was decorated with flags and banners from all the
countries she had travelled through; souvenirs labelled with the names
of every town she had visited, and the date of that event, lay scattered
about. The entrance-hall, darkened by the heavy banners on the
staircase, was a museum of curiosities collected by herself. The corners
and niches were filled with plaster casts of famous statuary, which were
supposed to look as fine as their marble originals in the gloom
surrounding them. Every room was crowded with ornaments and
knick-knacks, all of which had some association with herself. Even
those apartments not seen by guests were no less encumbered with
mementoes that had been discarded from time to time in favor of newer
treasures. Mrs. Bolton never dared to change her servants, and it cannot
be wondered at, that while offering a home to her nephew's wife, she
could not extend her invitation to a mischievous boy of seven.
But however interesting Bolton Villa might be to its mistress, it was not
altogether a home favorable for the recovery of a bowed-down spirit,
though Mrs. Bolton could not understand why Sophy, surrounded with
so many blessings and with so much to be thankful for, should fall into
a low, nervous fever shortly after she had parted with her husband and
child. The house was quiet, fearfully quiet to Sophy. There was a
depressing hush about it altogether different from the cheerful
tranquillity of her own home. Very few visitors broke through its
monotony, for Mrs. Bolton's social pinnacle was too high above her
immediate neighbors for them to climb up to it; whilst those whose
station was somewhat on a level with hers lived too faraway, or were
too young and frivolous for friendly intercourse. There were formal
dinner-parties at stated intervals, and