"
"But, dearest one," said I, "your father!"
"I have thought of that. I long to see him, and Jane, too. You go
home, Emilia, and bring them back with you. We four can live out
here in Italy forever, live and die here."
"But Constance?" said I, then.
There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round and
round.
"Oh, Constance," said he; "yes, it's hard on Constance. She will
have to live with her mother and your step-uncle, I suppose."
"No," I replied; "I should never allow that. But we can arrange
about Constance when we see her; we can talk it over together. I
cannot go without you, Gabriel. There is no reason why we should
stay there long,--only come with me you must."
He held out for some days, but in the end I conquered. We passed
through Florence on the way, and there beside my mother's grave I
put forth the first, the only prayer I ever made,--a wordless
yearning towards the Inconceivable, a prayer for strength and the
Light of Truth.
* * * * *
We reached Graysmill on the nineteenth of September. My impatience
was so great that, in spite of Gabriel's displeasure at what he
called my rashness, I would not stay in London on the way, but we
travelled straight down, reaching Fletcher's Hall at midnight.
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