Those few months had been filled with excitement for Lord Chandos. The pain he had felt at leaving his wife had been great and hard to bear, but life differs so greatly for men and women. Women must sit at home and weep. For them comes no great field of action, no stir of battle, no rush of fight; their sorrow weighs them down because they have nothing to shake it off. With men it is so different; they rush into action and forget it.

Leone was for some days prostrate with the pains of her sorrow. Lord Chandos suffered acutely for a couple of hours; then came the excitement of his journey, the whirl of travel and adventure, the thousand sources of interest and pleasure.

He was compelled to take his thoughts from Leone. He had a hundred other interests; not that he loved or cared for her less, but that he was compelled to give his attention to the duties intrusted to him. He was compelled to set his sorrow aside.

"I must work now," he said to himself, "I shall have time to think afterward."

He would have time to look his sorrow in the face—now it must stand aside.

When he really brought himself face to face with the world, it was impossible to help feeling flattered by the position he held. Every one congratulated him.

"You start to-morrow," one would say. "Glad to hear you have been chosen," said another. One prophesied continual court favor. Another that he would receive great honors. Every one seemed to consider him quite a favorite of fortune. No one even ever so faintly alluded to his marriage, to the lawsuit, or to the decision.

He was divided between gratitude for the relief and irritation that what had been of such moment to him had been nothing to others. Yet it was a relief to find his darling's name held sacred. He had dreaded to hear about it—to have the matter discussed in any word or shape; but it seemed as though the world had formed one grand conspiracy not to mention it.

Then came the excitement of traveling. His companion, Lord Dunferline, one of the most famous statesmen and noblest peers of England, was many years older than himself. He was a keen, shrewd, clever man, full of practical knowledge and common sense; he was the best friend who could have been chosen for the young lord; and Lady Lanswell congratulated herself on that as a magnificent piece of business. Lord Dunferline had not an iota of sentiment in his whole composition; his idea was that people came into this world to make the very best use they can of it—to increase in wealth, prosperity, and fortune; he believed in buying well, selling well, doing everything well, making the best use of life while it is ours to enjoy; he believed in always being comfortable, bright, cheery; he knew nothing of trouble; sickness, poverty, loss of friends, were all unknown evils to him; he had a prosperous, busy, happy life.

He was one on whom no honor was ever wasted, lost, or thrown away. He made the most of everything; he was rigid in the observation of etiquette, and exacted the utmost deference in his turn. He talked so long and so grandly of the honor conferred on them both that at last Lord Chandos began to find the importance of it too.

The marriage was to take place at Berlin; and they were received with something like royal honors. Society opened its arms to them; the elite of Berlin vied with each other in giving fetes of all kinds to the English noblemen who represented the English queen.

Still Lord Chandos made time for his letters; he would rather have gone without food than have missed that daily letter from Leone. He wrote to her as often as possible; and his letters would have satisfied even the most loving and sensitive heart. He told her how he loved her, how he missed her, how empty the world seemed, in spite of all its grandeur, because she was not near him—words that comforted her when she read them. Were they true or false? Who shall tell?

Then when the wedding festivities were held, it was not possible for him to write often, his time was so fully occupied. He wrote one sentence that consoled her and it was this—that, although he was surrounded by some of the loveliest women in Europe, there was not a face or a figure that could compare with hers. How she kissed the words as she read them, as women do the written words of the men they love!

It was such a different world, this he lived in now. It was all a blaze of color and brightness, a blaze of jewels, a scene of festivity and mirth, a scene of regal splendor and ever-changing gayety. There was no time for thought or reflection. Lord Chandos was always either being feted or feting others.

The few hasty words dashed off home said but little—it was a different world. If ever at night he found himself under the light of the stars, if he heard the ripple of water, if he stood for a moment watching the swaying of green boughs, his thoughts at once flew to her—the happy, simple home-life at Richmond was like some quiet, beautiful dream, the very memory of which gives rest. He found himself at times wondering how he liked it so well, it was such a contrast to the feted courtier's life he led now. He thought of its calm as he thought of a far-off summer lake.

There had been no flash of jewels, no sheen of cloth of gold there, no grand uniforms, no thrones there, no crowns, no kings or queens—Leone and himself; yet how happy they had been. How he loved her; and his young heart warmed with his love.

What would the world say when she came forth in her imperial loveliness? He liked to think about it. There were many handsome women and beautiful girls, but none to compare to her—not one.

He had intended to love her always with the same warmth and truth; he meant to be constant to her as the needle to the pole. He believed himself to be so; but insensibly the new life changed him—the gay, bright, glistening world influenced him.

After a time—even though he loved her just the same—after a time his thoughts ceased to dwell with such fervent interest on the pretty, simple home. After a time he began to feel his old keen sense of pleasure in all that the world had of the beautiful and bright; he began to feel an interest in its honors and titles.

"I have been lotus-eating," he said to himself; "there is nothing for it but to rouse myself."

In a short time he became very popular in Berlin. The young English noble, Lord Chandos, was as popular as any young sovereign, and there was little need to hurry home.

He went one evening to a very select ball given by the wife of the English embassador, Lady Baden. She smiled when she saw him.

"I have a surprise for you," she said, warmly. "I have what I know to be a most charming surprise. Will you go to the little salon, the third on the left? The door is closed, open it, and you will see what you will see."

Lord Chandos bowed and went in the direction she indicated. He did not expect to see anything particular, but he respected the caprices of les grandes dames. He opened the door carelessly enough and started back in amaze. There stood his father and mother, his mother's handsome face pale with anxiety, her jeweled arms outstretched, her fine eyes full of love.

"Lance," she said, "my dear son, how good it is to see you again!"

With the cautious avoidance of anything like a scene that distinguishes Englishmen, Lord Chandos turned first and carefully closed the door. Then the earl spoke:

"My dear boy," he said, "I am so pleased to see you!"

But there was no response for either on the face of their son. He bowed coldly, and his mother's jeweled arms fell by her side.

"This is a surprise, indeed," he said. "I should have considered some little notice more agreeable."

"Lance, you may say what you will to me," said the earl, "but remember, not one word to your mother."

"My mother was very cruel to me," he said, coldly, turning from her.

But my lady had recovered herself. She held out her hands with charming grace; she looked at her son with a charming smile.

"My dearest Lance," she said, "children call the physician who cuts off a diseased limb cruel, yet he is most merciful. I am even more merciful than he. I did what I did in the spirit of truest kindness to you, my son."

"Let there be no mention of the word kindness between us," he said. "You nearly broke the heart, and certainly ruined the life of the girl whom I loved. Mother, if that be what you call kindness, then I do not understand the English tongue."

"I did it for your sake, my dearest Lance," said my lady, caressingly.

"One would have thought that, loving the girl with my whole heart, for my sake you would have loved her also."

"Love plays but a poor part in life, Lance," said the Countess of Lanswell. "You have too much sense to mar one of the brightest futures a man has before him for the sake of sentimental nonsense called love."

"Mother," said the young lord, "I shall marry her on my twenty-first birthday. I shall not delay one hour. You understand that clearly?"

The Countess of Lanswell shrugged her graceful shoulders.

"You will certainly be able to do as you like then," she said; "but we need not quarrel over it in prospective; we can wait until the event happens; then it will be quite time enough to discuss what we shall do."

"I am quite resolved," said Lord Chandos. "No persuasion, no argument shall induce me to change."

"I have no arguments to use," said my lady, with a proud laugh. "When you are of age you shall do as you like, marry whom you will—no interference of mine will avail; but let us wait until the time comes. My object in coming here is to seek a reconciliation with you. You are our only son, and though you think me proud and cold, I still love and do not care to be at variance with you. Let us be friends, Lance, at least until you are of age."

She held out her hands again with a smile he could not resist.

"I tell you frankly," continued my lady, "that the young person has been to see me. We had quite a melodramatic interview. I do not wish to vex you, Lance, but she would make a capital fifth-rate actress for a tragedy in a barn."

"Come, my lady, that is too bad," said the earl.

The countess laughed.

"It was really sensational," she said. "The conclusion of the interview was a very solemn threat on her part that she would be revenged upon me, so that I must be prepared for war. But, Lance, let it be as it may, we must be friends. You will not refuse your mother when she asks a favor, and it is the first favor, mind."

"I cannot refuse," he replied. "I will be friends, as you phrase it, mother, but you must change your opinion about Leone."

"Another time," said my lady, with a wave of the hand. "Kiss me now, Lance, and be friends. Shake hands with your father. We are staying at the Hotel France. When the ball is over, join us at supper."

And in that way the solemn reconciliation was effected.