It is sunset after a fine day in August, and Mr. Blyth is enjoying the evening breeze in the invalid¹ room.

Besides the painter and his wife, and Madonna, two visitors are present, who occupy both the spare beds in the house. One is Mrs. Thorpe, the other Mrs. Peckover; and they have been asked to become Valentine’s guests, to assist at the joyful² ceremony of welcoming Zack to England on his return from the wilds of America. He has outstayed his year’s leave of absence by nearly six months; and his appearance at Mr. Blyth’s has become an event of daily, or more properly, of hourly expectation.

There is a sad and significant change in Mrs. Thorpe’s dress. She wears the widow’s cap and weeds. It is nearly seven months since her husband died, in the remote Welsh village to which he retired³ on leaving London. With him, as with many other confirmed invalids⁴, Nature drooped⁵ to her final decay gradually and wearily; but his death was painless, and his mental powers remained unimpaired to the end. One of the last names that lingered lovingly on his lips—after he had bade his wife farewell—was the name of his absent son.

Mrs. Thorpe sits close to Mrs. Blyth, and talks to her in low, gentle tones. The kind black eyes of the painter’s wife are brighter than they have been for many a long year past, and the clear tones of her voice—cheerful always—have a joyous⁷ sound in them now. Ever since the first days of the Spring season, she has been gaining so greatly in health and strength, that the “favorable turn” has taken place in her malady⁸, which was spoken of as “possible” by the doctors long ago, at the time of her first sufferings. She has several times, for the last fortnight, been moved from her couch for a few hours to a comfortable seat near the window; and if the fine weather still continues, she is to be taken out, in a day or two, for an airing in an invalid chair.

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