Four Gates by Amy Le Feuvre

"For the way is often dreary, And the feet are often weary, And the heart is very sad. There is heavy burden bearing, When it seems that none are caring, And we half forget that ever we were glad."

IT was a year later. Spring was on its way; but in London, fog reigned supreme, blotting out all light and sunshine, and filling people's lungs with its stinging, choking fumes.

In a dingy private hotel in Bloomsbury, a little face was pressed against the panes of the shabby drawing-room window eagerly watching for someone. At last, with a joyful cry, the child sprang from her post and flung herself into the arms of the woman who entered.

"Oh, mummie, I thought you was lost. Do you think it's the Judgment Day coming? I'm getting so frightened."

"No, darling, it's only a London fog."

Honor sat down heavily on a chair and Fay crept to her side.

"I'm sorry you're so tired. I don't like London. Where are we going to live?"

Honor gave a little bitter laugh.

"How' are we going to live is the question, Fay. I heard from your father this morning; he did not send the money he promised. He can't do it at present."

"But, mummie, you said weeks ago we were going into the country when father's letter came. Aren't we going?"

"Don't worry me, child! I must write a letter."

Then, ashamed of her momentary petulance, Honor caught the child to her.

"Oh, Fay, darling, I don't want to be cross, but I'm feeling ill, and very, 'very' anxious about you!"

Poor Honor! Step by step of her way had been clouded and bestrewn with thorns. Perhaps the happiest time had been on the big liner, when her husband was cheery and optimistic, and the little home they would eventually have together was discussed and planned.

When they landed at New York and he was met by several old friends, she discovered that her husband had a side to his character with which she was not acquainted. He established her and Fay in a boarding-house, and gradually was more and more away from them. Honor took his absence very quietly. She never expected that she would have sufficient attraction in herself to keep a man perpetually by her side. All she wanted was to be useful and helpful to him. And Fay was her daily and hourly delight. She mended and made her clothes, she taught her and she played with her, and she was happy and content.

Then Alick took them both with him for a trip to the West Indies, where he had a share in a sugar plantation. And Honor had a few happy months there. The strange, new scenes in which she found herself drew out all her powers. She grew more self-assured, and lost her shy shrinking manner. Alick and she, if not a demonstrative couple, were content with each other's society. And if he found it unnecessary to give much, Honor gave abundantly, and required very little from him. But when they again accompanied him back to the States, Alick grew a little restive. His money seemed to be failing him; he told Honor she must economise and live in a cheaper way. And when she found a couple of rooms in a poor part of Philadelphia, he told her he must take a trip down to Chili to look after a bit of property he had there.

"I can't take a woman and child with me," he said; "you'll stay here like a good little woman till I return, and then we'll think about going back to England and settling down."

He left her with a little money, and from time to time sent her additional small sums. But if Honor had not bestirred herself, and managed to earn something by plain needlework, she and Fay would have fared badly. As it was, her straitened means brought an anxious pucker to her brows and hollows under her eyes. They were always hoping, always expecting, the wanderer's return. And at last, one day he came-but only to tell Honor that she had better return to England with Fay.

"You will do better in your own country, near your own people, get some quiet country lodgings somewhere. I have been offered a post with a surveying party going up towards Alaska, and I shall be gone some months. I'll manage to scrape up enough money for your return passage, and will send you what I can. You're such a clever little woman in making both ends meet that I'm sure you will help me. I am in low water at present, but the tide is bound to turn."

"I cannot go to my own people," said Honor quietly, a heavy weight descending on her spirits at the prospect before her and of her coming motherhood. "Alick, are you regretting your marriage?"