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 Python Distilled

David M. Beazley
Author of Python Essential Reference
Contents
Preface

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1: Python Basics

Chapter 2: Operators, Expressions, and Data

Manipulation

Chapter 3: Program Structure and Control Flow

Chapter 4: Objects, Types, and Protocols

Chapter 5: Functions

Chapter 6: Generators

Chapter 7: Classes and Object-Oriented

Programming

Chapter 8: Modules and Packages

Chapter 9: Input and Output

Chapter 10: Built-in Functions and Standard

Library
Table of Contents
Preface

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1: Python Basics

Running Python
Python Programs
Primitives, Variables, and Expressions
Arithmetic Operators
Conditionals and Control Flow
Text Strings
File Input and Output
Lists
Tuples
Sets
Dictionaries
Iteration and Looping
Functions
Exceptions
Program Termination
Objects and Classes
Modules
Script Writing
Packages
Structuring an Application
Managing Third Party Packages
Python: It Fits Your Brain

Chapter 2: Operators, Expressions, and Data

Manipulation
Literals
Expressions and Locations
Standard Operators
In-place Assignment
Object Comparison
Ordered Comparison Operators
Boolean Expressions and Truth Values
Conditional Expressions
Operations Involving Iterables
Operations on Sequences
Operations on Mutable Sequences
Operations on Sets
Operations on Mappings
List, Set, and Dictionary Comprehensions
Generator Expressions
The Attribute (.) Operator
The Function Call () Operator
Order of Evaluation
Final Words - The Secret Life of Data

Chapter 3: Program Structure and Control Flow

Program Structure and Execution
Conditional Execution
Loops and Iteration
Exceptions
Context Managers and the with Statement
Assertions and __debug__
Final Words

Chapter 4: Objects, Types, and Protocols

Essential Concepts
Object Identity and Type
Reference Counting and Garbage Collection
References and Copies
Object Representation and Printing
First Class Objects
Using None for Optional or Missing Data
Object Protocols and Data Abstraction
Object Protocol
Number Protocol
Comparison Protocol
Conversion Protocols
Container Protocol
Iteration Protocol
Attribute Protocol
Function Protocol
Context Manager Protocol
Final words: On Being Pythonic
 Chapter 5: Functions
Function Definitions
Default Arguments
Variadic Arguments
Keyword Arguments
Variadic Keyword Arguments
Functions Accepting All Inputs
Positional Only Arguments
Names, Documentation Strings, and Type Hints
Function Application and Parameter Passing
Return Values
Error Handling
Scoping Rules
Recursion
The lambda Expression
Higher Order Functions
Argument Passing in Callback Functions
Returning Results from Callbacks
Decorators
Map, Filter, and Reduce
Function Introspection, Attributes, and Signatures
Environment Inspection
Dynamic Code Execution and Creation
Asynchronous Functions and Await
Final Words: Thoughts on Functions and Composition

Chapter 6: Generators
Generators and yield
Restartable Generators
Generator Delegation
Using Generators in Practice
Enhanced Generators and yield Expressions
Applications of Enhanced Generators
Generators and the Bridge to Awaiting
Final Words: A Brief History of Generators and Looking Forward

Chapter 7: Classes and Object-Oriented

Programming
Objects
The class Statement
Instances
Attribute Access
Scoping Rules
Operator Overloading and Protocols
Inheritance
Avoiding Inheritance via Composition
Avoiding Inheritance via Functions
Dynamic Binding and Duck Typing
The Danger of Inheriting from Built-in Types
Class Variables and Methods
Static Methods
A Word About Design Patterns
Data Encapsulation and Private Attributes
Type Hinting
Properties
Types, Interfaces, and Abstract Base Classes
Multiple Inheritance, Interfaces, and Mixins
Type-based Dispatch
Class Decorators
Supervised Inheritance
The Object Life Cycle and Memory Management
Weak References
Internal Object Representation and Attribute Binding
Proxies, Wrappers, and Delegation
Reducing memory use with __slots__
Descriptors
Class Definition Process
Dynamic Class Creation
Metaclasses
Built-in Objects for Instances and Classes
Final Words: Keep it Simple

Chapter 8: Modules and Packages

Modules and the import Statement
Module Caching
Importing Selected Names from a Module
Circular Imports
Module Reloading and Unloading
Module Compilation
The Module Search Path
Execution as the Main Program
Packages
Running a Package submodule as a script
Controlling the Package Namespace
Controlling Package Exports
Package data
Module Objects
Module Attribute Access
Deploying Python Packages

Chapter 9: Input and Output

Data Representation
Text Encoding and Decoding
Text and Byte Formatting
Reading Command-Line Options
Environment Variables
Files and File Objects
I/O Abstraction Layers
Standard Input, Output, and Error
Directories
The print() function
Generating Output
Consuming Input
Object Serialization
Blocking Operations and Concurrency
Standard Library Modules
Final Words

Chapter 10: Built-in Functions and Standard

Library
Built-in Functions
Built-In Exceptions
Standard Library
Final Words: Use the builtins
Preface
More than 20 years have passed since I authored the Python
Essential Reference. At that time, Python was a much smaller
language and it came with a useful set of batteries in its standard
library. It was something that could mostly fit your brain. The
Essential Reference reflected that era. It was meant to be a small
book that you could take with you to write some Python code on a
desert island or inside a secret vault. Over three subsequent
revisions, the Essential Reference more-or-less evolved with this
vision of being a compact, but complete language reference—
because if you were going to code Python on vacation, why wouldn’t
you want to use all of it?
Today, more than a decade has passed since the publication of the
last edition and the Python world is much different. No longer a
niche language, Python has grown to become one of the most
popular programming languages in the world. Python programmers
also have a wealth of information at their fingertips in the form of
advanced editors, IDEs, notebooks, web pages, and more. In fact,
there’s probably little need to consult a "reference book" when
almost any reference material you might want can be conjured to
appear before your very eyes with the touch of a few keys.
If anything, the ease of information retrieval and the "bigness" of
the Python universe presents a different kind of challenge. If you’re
just trying to learn or starting to solve a new problem, it can be a bit
overwhelming to know where to begin. It can also be di˚cult to
separate the features of various tools from the core language itself.
These kinds of problems are the foundation for this book.
Python Distilled is a book about programming in Python. However,
rather than tring to document absolutely "everything" that’s possible
or has been previously done in Python, the focus is on presenting a
modern, yet curated (or distilled) core of the language. Much of this
has been informed by my years of teaching Python to scientists,
engineers, and software professionals. However, it’s also a product
of writing various software libraries, pushing the outer edges of what
makes Python tick, and learning about what’s most useful.
For the most part, the book stays focused on the topic of Python
programming itself. This includes abstraction techniques, program
structure, data, functions, objects, modules, and so forth—topics
that will well serve programmers working on Python projects of any
size. Pure reference material that can be easily obtained via an IDE
(i.e., lists of functions, names of commands, arguments, etc.) is
generally omitted. I’ve also made a conscious choice to not describe
the fast-changing world of Python tooling related to editors, IDEs,
deployment, and other matters.
Perhaps controversially, I don’t generally focus on language features
related to large-scale software project management. Python is
sometimes used for big and serious things—somehow involving
millions upon millions of lines of code. Maintaining such applications
requires tooling, and design, and features, and types, and
committees, and meetings, and decisions to be made about very
important matters. Matters of such importance are too important for
this small book. Thus, they are left as an exercise for the reader.
However, the honest answer is that I don’t use Python to write such
applications—and neither should you.
In writing a book, there is always a cut-off regarding ever-evolving
language features. This book was written during the era of Python
3.9. As such, it does not include some of the major additions
planned for later releases—for example, structural pattern matching.
That’s a topic for a different time and place.
Last, but not least, I think it’s important that programming remain
fun. I hope that the book not only helps you become a productive
Python programmer, but that it also captures some of the magic that
has inspired people to use Python for exploring the stars, flying
helicopters on Mars, or spraying squirrels with a water cannon in the
backyard.
Acknowledgments [This content
is currently in development.]
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 CHAPTER XIV.
STRICKEN.

THERE was a silence after I had spoken those incautious

words. I heard my companion breathing quickly; but when
he spoke again, it was in a quiet voice.

"We all wish sometimes to follow those who are gone,"

he said, taking up the latter part of my sentence. "Their
love seems the only real love; everything pure and true
seems to have passed away with them."

He had exactly expressed my thoughts. Of late I had

felt as if my place were with the departed, and not in this
world at all. I had succeeded so ill with the living, that I was
only fit for the company of the dead.

"But," he went on, in a deepening voice, and with eyes

fixed on mine, "we only turn to the past because our hour is
not yet come. Do you follow me? I believe that to everyone
of us there comes once—perhaps twice—in a life the chance
of a happy love. We are blessed indeed if we seize that
chance, but most of us let it go by. It may return, and we
may recognise in it our last possibility of happiness."

It was not until later on that I took in his full meaning. I

was too much excited just then to perceive the true
significance of his words; but the earnestness of his look
and tone impressed me strangely.

"You are unhappy to-night," he continued. "You have

seen with your own eyes that a pre-occupied heart will
always be constant to its first tenant. Sooner or later the
second love finds itself pushed out into the cold; and it is
happiest and wisest when it turns to some warm shelter
that stands open and ready."

"A wife can never permit herself to be pushed out into

the cold," I cried, with sudden passion. "She will assert her
rights, and retain possession."

"Right is a poor thing unsupported by love," he said,

sadly.

The train had now reached its destination, and our tête-
à-tête was at an end. I sprang quickly out of the carriage,
and strained my eyes to discern Ronald and Ida in the dim
light.

Hundreds were moving to and fro; the other members

of our party gathered round us, but those two seemed to be
long in coming. At last, quite suddenly, I found them close
upon me. Miss Lorimer, leaning heavily on my husband's
arm, looked full into my face with indifferent eyes.
 "I am tired, Ronald," I said, in an unsteady voice. "Let
us get home as quickly as we can. Pray come at once."

"What a delightful day we have had, Mrs. Hepburne!"

said Ida, without removing her hand from Ronald's arm. "I
am afraid you have not enjoyed yourself as much as we
have."

Commonplace words enough; but for me they contained

a sting!

"Mrs. Hepburne is not well," said Greystock, kindly. "The

heat has been too much for her."

"And Mr. Hepburne has been basking in the sun!"

remarked Ida, with a little laugh. "He ought to have stayed
in the tropics. Now I am going to release him," she added,
looking at me. "He is free to return to his duties."

There was a quiet insolence in this speech which almost

maddened me, over-worn and over-strained as I already
was. Well was it that the instincts and habits of a
gentlewoman came to my aid at that moment, and
prevented a scene.

As in a lightning flash, I saw that Ronald feared for my

self-control. Was it possible that Ida had gone too far even
for him? The consciousness of this feeling on his part was a
great help to me.

"Thanks, Miss Lorimer," I said, with creditable calmness,

as I put my hand within the arm that she had let go. "I am
so glad you have done with him. Being a stupid, tired
woman I am really thankful for any support. Good-night, I
am happy to know you have had a pleasant day."
 William Greystock said a quiet adieu, and I went off
with my husband in silence.

In another minute we were in a hansom, rattling home

to Chapel Place; but no words passed between us. My
resentment was strong and deep, and he knew that it was
just.

Still in moody silence we entered the little room in

which we had spent so many happy hours together. I looked
round sadly at all our decorations and ornaments,
remembering the days when we had worked with loving
hands to make this humble home attractive in our own
eyes. How idle all that work seemed to me now! Nothing
would ever make Ronald contented here when his heart was
elsewhere.

"I have been very miserable to-day," I said, at last

breaking the long silence and looking steadfastly at his
gloomy face.

"Any one could see that," he answered, sullenly. "I felt

that you had made a mistake in accepting the invitation."

"Yes, Ronald." I spoke with rising indignation. "I now

perfectly understand why you did not wish me to go."

"You always understood me, Louie; I have spoken

plainly enough. I did not want you to go unless you could
enjoy yourself; and you would not enjoy yourself—that is
all."

"Do you think it was possible for any woman to enjoy

herself under such circumstances?" I demanded,
passionately.
 "Quite possible; it was a fine day, and the people were
all agreeable."

His cool tone drove me to distraction. He was standing

on the hearth in his old attitude, evidently prepared for a
quarrel.

"Oh, Ronald," I said, "you knew all the time that you
were making me wretched. Was it manly—was it right—to
flirt openly with a woman who tried to ignore me?"

"My dear Louie," he began, in that tone of easy

superiority which a man nearly always assumes when he is
in the wrong. "I wish—I really do wish—that you would go
and consult Dr. Warstone to-morrow. You are suffering from
hysteria or dyspepsia, or—"

He paused, unable to think of any other disorder on the

spur of the moment; but I had calmed myself by a mighty
effort; I would be as cool as he was.

"Perhaps I am suffering from one of those complaints,"

I said, composedly. "I know I have been ill for a long time,
but I don't want to give in if I can help it."

"Why shouldn't you give in?" he demanded, pettishly. "I

gave in when I was ill. Anything is better than going about
in a chronic state of bad temper, and snubbing unoffending
people."

I did not reply. It cost me no effort to be silent now. I

saw the uselessness of this war of words, and quietly took
up the bedroom candlestick.

"As to people trying to ignore you," he continued,

following me into the next room, "all that they try to do is
to get out of the way of your wrath. If you had only seen
your own face to-day, you would have known why you were
shunned."

My heart seemed to be fast hardening within me, and

still I kept silence. As I stood before the glass unbinding my
hair, I noticed the stony look that had settled on my
features. No wonder Ronald cared nothing about a woman
who was so haggard and unlovely. And then I thought of
that other woman, with her pink-and-white face and golden
tresses.

My silence was not without an effect. He was ashamed

of his unkind words; but this, alas! I did not know till long
afterwards.

If he had but yielded then to one of his old affectionate

impulses, all might have been well. But who does not
remember the loving words that were not spoken at the
right moment? How heavily they weigh on the heart after
the opportunity of uttering them has gone by!

Still in sullen silence we lay down side by side. I know

not whether he slept; I only know that I lay wide awake all
through the weary hours of that memorable night. Ah me, I
thought of other nights when I had watched beside his
pillow, praying that he might be spared to me! I recalled
those long midnight hours when he had wakened from
fevered dreams to find me near, and many a broken word of
love and gratitude yet haunted my memory. Had he loved
Ida Lorimer then? Had he secretly sighed for her presence
in the sick room instead of mine?

By-and-by the London dawn crept into the chamber, and

found me spent and worn with sleeplessness. While Ronald
still slumbered, I rose, washed and dressed without noise,
and went out into the little yard to see how nurse's ivy
flourished. There I lingered, listening to the chirping of the
sparrows, until it was time for breakfast.

It was a brief meal, eaten in silence and mutual

restraint. Then, without a word of adieu, Ronald went his
way to the City, and I was left to brood over the events of
the previous day alone.

It chanced that nurse was busy that day, and did not
come to talk to me and hear all about the picnic. I got my
work-basket and went on sewing and mending as usual,
trying not to feel the icy hand that was holding my heart in
an iron grasp—trying to forget the dull pain in my temples.
And so the morning wore away.

In the afternoon I established myself in my old seat in

the arm-chair, determined to court repose. If I slept at all, it
could only have been a doze which lasted a few minutes.
And then, as before, a loud double knock made me start up,
half-bewildered; and once again William Greystock was my
visitor.

His first glance at me must have shown him the evident

traces of misery and illness; my first glance at him revealed
a change in his face which startled and astonished me.

His olive skin was glowing, and there was such an

intense light in his dark eyes that I almost shrank from their
gaze. But when he spoke, his voice was curiously gentle and
calm.

"I have come to see how you are, Mrs. Hepburne," he

began, as I rose, tottering, from my seat. "No better than I
expected to find you, I fear?"

"I was scarcely strong enough to go to Richmond," I

said, making a wretched attempt to be at ease.
 MY FIRST GLANCE REVEALED A CHANGE IN HIS FACE WHICH
STARTLED ME.

"The whole thing was a miserable mistake on my part,"

he said, sadly.

"I don't know that it was a mistake, Mr. Greystock," I

answered, still trying to talk in a commonplace way. "Ronald
thought it a very successful picnic. I am rapidly becoming a
morose invalid, you know, and I can't enjoy myself as
others can. For the future I must be content to be a home-
bird."

"A home-bird whose song has ceased," he said, in his

deep, mournful voice. "But there is still one power left to
you."

"What power?" I asked, bewildered.

"The power to fly; the power to leave one who will very
soon leave you. Ah, Mrs. Hepburne, I have come to say
startling things; I know not how you will bear to hear
them!"

"Speak on," I said, hoarsely. "Has Ronald sent you?

There is some dreadful news to be told. Is my husband ill?
For heaven's sake, tell me quickly what has happened!"

CHAPTER XV.
FLIGHT.
 "DO not distress yourself about Ronald," said William
Greystock, gently laying a hand on my arm and putting me
back into my seat. "I have seen him to-day, and he is well
enough. It is not the state of his health that need concern
you now."

I sat down again, panting for breath. What was coming

next? I began to wonder vaguely how much I could bear,
and yet continue to live on?

"I am doing you a cruel kindness, Mrs. Hepburne," went

on Greystock, still with that burning light in his eyes; "but
you must know all; at any cost the veil must be torn from
your sight. Did not yesterday's experience prepare you in
some degree for what was coming?"

That hand of ice was now tightening its grasp on my

heart so that I could scarcely breathe. My lips moved; but
no sound came from them.

He had taken a paper from his breast and was slowly

unfolding it, keeping his gaze fixed on me all the while. And
then, after a pause, he held it out to me, and asked me to
read its contents.

I took it mechanically from his hand, but the lines swam

before my eyes; yet I retained sense enough to understand
the words that he was saying.

"That letter was dropped by Ronald in my office to-day.

I did not find it till he was gone. It was without an envelope,
and I picked it up and unfolded it, not knowing what it was.
After I had read it, I decided to give it to you instead of
returning it to your husband."

Gradually the mist had cleared away from my sight, and

I could read the brief note that I was holding in my cold
fingers. It was written in a woman's hand; large and clear,
and ran as follows:

"G
ROSVENOR STREET

"
Thursday Night.

"DEAREST RONALD—

"I have almost determined, after seeing you

to-day, to risk everything for your sake. It will
be a terrible thing to brave my uncle's anger,
and the sneers of all my relations, but it will be
easier than living without you. Let us meet to-
morrow, if possible, and then we can talk the
matter over once more. Good-night, dearest.

"Your loving

"IDA."

"To risk everything for your sake!" She loved him—that

cold, golden-haired woman loved him well enough to
endure the scorn of the world! I could see all things now in
a new light. He had married in a fit of hopelessness or
pique, and they had tried to forget each other. But the
separation could not be borne any longer: they had met and
tasted the old sweetness of their love again.

Yes; William Greystock lied divined the truth. Ronald

meant to leave me; he would not resist the temptation. Life
without Ida Lorimer was not worth having; he had grown
utterly weary of the poor little delicate wife who fretted him
with her low spirits and constant anxiety about bills. What
was to be done? How was I—a heart-broken, deserted
woman—to face life?

Still grasping the letter in my icy hand, I gazed blankly

at the man who had brought it to me. At that moment my
old distrust and dislike of William Greystock were quite
forgotten.

Swallowed up in this overwhelming anguish, he

sympathised with me, and would have spared me the blow
if he could. I did not blame him then for what he had done.

But what should I do? Was I to remain here, in the

room which Ronald and I had beautified together? I did not
even know whether he would come back to his home again;
perhaps his flight with Ida was already planned, and I might
never see him more. The question that was in my poor,
confused mind, issued involuntarily from my lips. As one in
a dream, I heard my own voice saying—

"What shall I do?"

"There is only one thing to be done."

William Greystock had risen to his feet, and his tone

was strong and firm. He stood before me, tall and upright,
and the afternoon sun shone in upon his darkly handsome
face and brilliant eyes.

"Yes, Mrs. Hepburne, there is only one thing to be done.

Did I not say that there was one power left to you—the
power of using your wings? You must fly."

"I must fly," I repeated, stupidly. "I cannot stay here."

 "You need not stay here another hour. You can come
away and forget the man who has so basely wronged you.
Let him seek happiness where he will; let him go, Louie: he
never was worthy of your love."

"He will go," I murmured. "Already he is lost to me."

"Utterly lost. Louie, you must begin a new life. Come

with me; let me lay at your feet the heart that has always
been your own. Let me devote myself to you until I have
made you forget your false husband; let me show you how
a man can love when he has won the woman of his choice."

Was I going mad? There arose from the depths of my

soul a passionate prayer that I might awake and find that I
had been dreaming a strange and evil dream. But no; I was
sitting on the old sofa in the familiar little room, and there
was William Greystock, a veritable form of flesh and blood.

As the consciousness of his reality smote upon my

bewildered brain, I too rose suddenly to my feet, and felt
myself inspired with feverish courage and strength.

"I never thought to have fallen so low as this," I said,

sternly confronting him. "Has there been anything in me to
lead you to think that I could be false to my marriage vow?
Do you suppose that Ronald's desertion can make me forget
my duty to God and myself?"

"You are absolved from all vows," he cried, hastily.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Hepburne, I entreat you!"

"I have already listened too long. You came here,

supposing that the deserted wife would be an easy victim.
Well, you are quickly undeceived. Villain—traitor—tempter—
I am ready to go to my grave; but I will never stir one step
from this house with you!"
 The glow had faded out of his face, leaving it as white
as death. He had played his last card, and he would never
begin the game again. A weaker man would have lingered
and tried to move me; but William Greystock knew that
mine were no idle words.

In another moment the door had opened and shut, and

I was delivered from his evil presence. Even in that hour of
intense anguish, I found strength enough to thank God that
he was gone.

But Ronald—my Ronald, whom I still loved with all the

devotion of true womanhood and wifehood! That man, evil
as he was, had spoken truth in saying that Ronald was
utterly lost to me. The note that I still clasped tightly in my
fingers was a proof of his cruel infidelity. I knew Ida
Lorimer's handwriting; I had seen notes written by her to
Marian Bailey; it was a peculiar hand, and I should have
recognised it anywhere. There was not, in this case, the
faintest possibility of a deception.

As the door closed, I had sunk exhausted on the sofa;

but now I rose, gaining fictitious strength from the
resolution that I had rapidly formed. I would go away—away
from London—back to my old home, and strive to earn a
humble living among the people who had known me from
my childhood.

But before my plan was put into execution, there were

certain things that must be done. Nurse had gone out soon
after luncheon, and there was no one in the house who
would take any notice of my doings. It was a positive relief
to feel that my faithful old friend was absent; I dreaded any
influence that might be exerted to turn me from my
purpose.
 Although my temples ached and burned, and every
pulse in my body throbbed violently, I carried on my
preparations with unnatural calmness. First I filled my
hand-bag with some indispensable things, assured myself
that I had money enough for immediate wants, and then
sat down to write my farewell to my husband.

But this was the hardest part of my task. I wrote a line,

and then paused, and let my glance wander round the
room, until memories came thronging upon me thick and
fast. Was there no way that might lead us back into our
happy past? Must I go onward, along this terrible road to
which an inexorable hand was pointing? For a moment or
two I wavered in my purpose, and then I remembered Ida's
letter. It was not I who was leaving Ronald, he had already
left me.

But my hand trembled sadly as I traced my parting

words. They were simple and few; I wasted no time in
useless reproaches, but frankly told him why I said good-
bye.

"An accident," I wrote, "has thrown into my hands a

certain note written to you last night. The writer was Ida
Lorimer; and I now know that you can no longer bear to live
with me. Good-bye, Ronald; I have tried to make you
happy, and miserably failed."

I put my note into an envelope, addressed it, and

placed it on the chimney-piece, where it would be sure to
meet his eye. If he did not return to Chapel Place, it would
only have been written in vain—that was all. Nothing
mattered very much now.

This done, I was ready for my departure. Once more I

glanced round the room, taking a silent farewell of those
trifles which loving associations had made intensely dear.
And as my gaze rested on the guitar, I felt as sharp a thrill
of anguish as if it had been a living thing which I must leave
for ever. Going over to the corner where it stood, I stooped
and kissed the strings as if they could have responded to
my caress.

As my lips touched the chords they seemed to give out

a faint, sweet sound. I do not know how it was that this
faintest hint of music recalled to mind that mysterious air,
whose origin and meaning had baffled us so long. I only
know that the melody began to ring softly in my ears; and it
was not until I had fairly plunged into the noise of the
streets that I lost its haunting sweetness.

There was one more thing to do before I turned my

back on London.

My strength was already beginning to fail when I turned

my steps towards that dim street in which my husband and
I had begun our married life. Yet I would not go away
without one farewell look at the house to which I had gone
as a young bride. It was there that I had spent my first
sweet days of perfect trust and love; and there, too, that
the sharp battle had been fought betwixt life and death. Ah,
if death had been the conqueror in that strife, I should not
have been as utterly hopeless and heart-broken as I was to-
day!

Coming to the house, I paused before the window of

our old sitting-room, which overlooked the street. And,
standing there silently, I seemed to see the ghost of my old
self drawing aside the lace curtains, and watching anxiously
for the doctor's carriage. Hopes, fears, prayers, all came
thronging back into my mind; and my misery grew so
intolerable that I could fain have sat down, like some poor
castaway, on the doorstep, and drawn my last breath there.

Oh, love—life—time! Even in these tranquil days, I find

myself wondering how human beings, weak as myself, can
live under their burdens of sorrow. I had saved a life that
was to blight mine; I had rescued him from death, and he
had broken my heart.

If I had lingered any longer in that spot, my strength,

already so nearly spent, would have utterly failed. I roused
myself, grasped my bag with a firmer hand, and turned,
away from the house, as weary and forlorn a woman as
could be found in the vast city that day.

At the end of the street I called a hansom, and directed

the driver to go to Euston Square. And at last, hardly
certain whether I was awake or asleep, I found myself in a
second-class railway carriage on my way to my old home.

How the hours of my journey went by I can scarcely

tell. Passengers got in and got out; and one elderly lady,
with a kind face, insisted on my taking a draught of wine-
and-water from her travelling-flask. I have but a vague
remembrance of the gentle words that she spoke, warning
me not to put too severe a strain upon my health; but I can
distinctly recall her pitying smile, and the parting pressure
of her hand. God bless her, wherever she is; and if ever
there should come to her, or hers, a time of bitter need,
may that motherly kindness be paid back fourfold!

It is said to be a cold world; and yet, if the truth were

told, I believe that there are many who could tell of the
good deeds done to them by utter strangers. Has not many
a painful journey been brightened by the company of some
unknown friend, who will never meet us on this earth
again?
 CHAPTER XVI.
A FEVERISH DREAM.

THE sweet dusk of a summer night was fast stealing

over my old village, when I took my way through the
beautiful lanes once more.

When I had given up my ticket, and turned away from

the quiet station, I was distinctly conscious of a strange
confusion of ideas. I could not remember the name of the
old inn which had been familiar to me as a child; nor could I
recall the place where it stood. Was it not somewhere on
the outskirts of the village? Was it at the top or at the
bottom of the straggling street?

Perhaps if I were too stupid to find the inn—where I had

intended to pass the night—I might manage to drag myself
to the rectory. Do what I would, tax my brain to the
uttermost, I could not tell whether the rector's aunt were
living or dead. Yet I could plainly recollect happy hours
spent in the study of the kind bachelor rector, who had
allowed me to turn over his books to my heart's content.
The good old aunt had been his housekeeper for many a
peaceful year, and little Louie was always her chief
favourite. Would she greet me with a kiss and blessing, and
lead me to rest in the pleasant guest chamber to-night?

Alas! The kind old maiden lady had been sleeping in her
appointed corner of the churchyard for two years and more;
and the rector, influenced by Lady Waterville, had been
much offended by my imprudent marriage. But, in my
present confused state, I could not tell who was living and
who was dead.

The fragrance of honeysuckle, rich and over-powering,

greeted me as I passed along the lane. I stopped to gather
some of the sprays, wet with dew, that flung their blossoms
lavishly over the hedge.

Miss Drury had always been fond of honeysuckle. I

suddenly determined to gather a good handful and carry it
to the rectory. Then I would ask for her, and put the flowers
into her hands, and tell her that little Louie had come back,
sick and weary, to beg for a night's rest.

Feeling almost glad again, I broke off cluster after

cluster, softly singing an old song to myself all the while. It
was a song about the fleeting joys of childhood, and the
little lovers who came with their simple gifts to win the
heart of the merry child. Quite suddenly, while I was singing
it, I remembered another lover, older and sadder, who had
won me with the magic of his melancholy Spanish eyes, and
whispered words of sad yearning. And then I burst out into
a wild sob which put an end to the song.

Carrying my light burden of flowers, I went onward

through the old lanes, quietly weeping. But the sweet
breath of the fields, and the calm of the deepening dusk,
tranquillised my spirit, and made me even as a little child.

Still pressing on, and still trying vainly to disentangle

my brain from the web that was wound about it, I found
myself at the end of the lane. It opened out upon a space of
green sward, and then began to narrow again. But on my
right, in the clear twilight, arose the familiar outline of a
massive tower; and, protected by a low flint wall, were
certain dark yews, whose evening whisper recalled other
childish memories. On the left were more trees, beeches
and sycamores, and a great cedar which stood as a
patriarch among his brethren. I knew those trees quite well.
The cedar boughs darkened the study window where the
rector sat to write his sermons, and shadowed that very
"guest chamber" wherein I hoped to sleep to-night.

And, indeed, it was time for me to go to sleep. I was so

tired that my limbs seemed to be clogged with iron fetters,
and my feet found it hard to keep to a straight line. The
gate of the rectory garden stood wide open, and the friendly
old trees rustled a welcome as I passed under their boughs
and made my way, feebly and unsteadily, to the house door.

After some searching, I found the bell-handle, hidden

somewhere in the thick ivy leaves, and gave it a pull. A
muffled peal met my dull ears, and at length there were
footsteps, and the heavy oaken door slowly opened. I was
conscious of a dim light shining out of a dark entry, and of
the face of an elderly woman-servant, whose eyes looked
inquisitively into mine.

Gathering up all my forces, I spoke in a clear voice,

eager to make myself known and understood at once.
 I BROKE OUT INTO AN EXCEEDING BITTER CRY.

"I want to see Miss Drury. Please go and tell her that
Louie Coverdale has brought her some honeysuckle, and
ask her to come quickly."

"Lord, have mercy upon us!" ejaculated the woman, in

great dismay. And then she disappeared for a moment, and
her trembling voice went echoing through the long passages
of the old house, while I, faint and weary, stood leaning
against the post of the door.
 A man came out next, a venerable man, with delicate
features and snow-white hair; and at the sight of him, I
broke out into an exceeding bitter cry.

"You are the rector," I wailed, "and you are angry with
me. If Miss Drury would come, she would understand
everything. Why don't you send for her? Why is she not
here?"

Even while I was pouring out these wild words, I felt the
rector's hands upon my arm, and I was drawn gently
indoors and nearer to the light. But somehow the kind
hands seemed not to be strong enough to hold me, and the
light melted into darkness. There came a sound in my ears
like the roaring of many waters, and then I knew no more.

Once or twice I was vaguely aware that one or two

people were busy about me, and that I was in great pain of
body and trouble of mind. But nothing was clear and plain.
And once I dreamed a feverish dream of the house in the
dreary London street where Ronald had lain sick unto
death; and I thought that he was really dead, and that I
was dying and going straight to him.

How long these strange fancies lasted I do not know. It

seemed to me that I was a long while in a land of
phantoms, where the dead and the living drifted about
together; and their words had no meaning, their forms no
substance. But at last I awoke, and the waking was as
bewildering as the dreams had been.
 CHAPTER XVII.
AWAKING.

OUT of the world of phantoms, I came one day into the

familiar old work-a-day world again.

It was a world of softly-tempered light and shade. I

became, at first, vaguely conscious of two open windows
half veiled by lace curtains, and on each broad window-sill
there stood a quaint old red-and-blue vase, holding roses
and myrtle. Above a high chimney-piece hung a faded piece
of crewelwork, framed and glazed, and representing (as I
discovered afterwards) the Walk to Emmaus, and below the
picture was a formidable row of medicine-bottles, some of
them nearly empty.

I must, I suppose, have uttered some inarticulate words

when I first saw these things around me. Anyhow, two
persons, one on the right side of the bed and one on the
left, rose quietly and bent over me.

One of these two faces, framed in an old-fashioned cap,

was rosy and wrinkled like an apple from a store-room. The
other was young and comely, although the kind eyes looked
upon me through a mist of tears, and the pleasant lips were
trembling.

It was Marian Bailey's face; but never before had I seen

the calm Marian so deeply moved.

"How did you come here, Marian?" was the first

question I asked.

I did not even know where "here" was. I could not tell
how I came to be lying in this sunny old-world room, nor
why all those bottles were ranged upon the mantelpiece.
And yet I had an indistinct notion that Marian must have
had some trouble in finding me.

"Never mind now, dear," said my friend, soothingly.

"You have been ill, and mustn't talk much. But you are
going to get well soon, and be very happy."

"Very happy." As she uttered those words I began to

collect my scattered thoughts. What did happiness mean? It
has a separate and distinct meaning for every human being
who has ever tasted it. To me it meant life with Ronald,
loving him and being entirely beloved in return.

But that kind of happiness could never again be mine.

My song was ended; my tale was told. I suffered acutely
under the first pangs of remembrance.

All the events of those last two days, before I fled from
London, came crowding back into my weak head until I
could hardly bear the burden of existence. The elderly body
in the cap (who was the rector's housekeeper) gently raised
me in the bed and brought me chicken-broth, and Marian
watched patiently by my side. Perhaps she understood
some of the thoughts that were in my mind, for she gave
me a reassuring smile. How I longed to be alone with her
and open my heart to this true friend!

Then the doctor came, and after he had seen me, I

heard Marian conferring with him in a low tone at the end of
the room. And when she came back to my side her face was
brighter, and her smile had a new meaning.

"Cheer up, Louie," she whispered. "You are getting

better fast, and you will soon be able to see Ronald."

"He does not want to see me any more," I said, sadly.

"My dear child, there have been terrible

misunderstandings; but everything will be set right. Trust
me, Louie, your husband has never truly loved any woman
but yourself, and he has been suffering acutely since you
left him."

"Suffering? Oh, Marian! Send for him; tell him to come

at once!"

"Hush, hush, Louie. You must wait until you are a little
stronger. He will be quite happy when he knows that you
want him back again."

I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the new,

blissful sense of thankfulness and peace. Somehow—I knew
not in what way—my Ronald would be given back to me.

That night I had a sound sleep, and when I woke up, it

was bright morning. Delicate perfumes came stealing in
through the open windows; I could see the tops of fruit-
trees gently stirred by a soft wind, and between the boughs
I caught a glimpse of the grey chump tower.
 Looking round fur Marian, I saw her entering the room
with a basket of freshly-gathered roses and honeysuckle—
such roses as are not to be found in every garden. Seeing
that my eyes were open, she brought the basket to my side
and let me bury my face in the great, sweet crimson
flowers. She herself looked very fresh and pleasant in her
pretty chintz gown, and there was a quiet expression of
content on her face as she hovered round my pillow.

"Old times seem to have come back, Louie," she said,

cheerfully. "We might fancy ourselves in your grandfather's
cottage. Don't you remember that I used sometimes to play
at being nurse there?"

I did remember it, and the recollection of those simple

girlish days was like balm to the spirit. It was good for me
to dwell on that time, and turn my thoughts away from the
weary trials and anxieties that had beset my married life. At
present, I was too weak to take in the fact that I was the
uninvited guest of the rector, and that I had literally forced
myself on the hospitality of an old friend who was
displeased with me.

Nursed and soothed and petted, I found my strength

coming back faster than those around me had dared to
expect. And when the evening was closing in again, I called
Marian to my bedside and assured her (in a somewhat
unsteady voice) that I was well enough to bear a good long
talk.

"Not a long talk, Louie," she answered. "But I think we

may venture to say a few words to each other. Of course
you want to know about Ronald, first of all?"

"Yes, yes," I whispered, pressing her hand.

 "Well, I will begin with your departure from Chapel
Place. Nobody missed you—nobody knew you had gone till
your husband returned from the City. The first thing that he
saw was your note on the mantelpiece, and the first thing
that he did was to rush out of the house, call a hansom, and
drive to Curzon Street to me."

"Did he think that I had gone to you, Marian?"

"I fancy that he did. He seemed sorely distressed to find

that I could tell him nothing. At his request, I returned with
him to Chapel Place, and found that nurse had just come
home. She, too, was greatly troubled; but her quick instinct
put us at once on the right track. She was sure you had fled
to the dear old village, hoping there to find rest and peace."

"Ah, she knew my longing for this place!" I said, faintly.

"Then," Marian continued, "we lost no time in following

you—Ronald and I."

"Did he come with you? Oh, Marian!"

"Did you suppose he could remain contentedly in town

and wait for news? I don't tell you how distracted he was, it
is because I fear to agitate you. But if you could have seen
his misery and heard his self-reproaches, you would have
felt your last doubt swept away. Ali, Louie, a wife should be
very slow to doubt a husband's love. She may have a great
deal to endure (most wives have), but she should guard her
heart against jealousy, which is the worst foe of married
life."

"He gave me cause to be jealous, Marian," I said. "You

did not go to that dreadful picnic; you did not see his
attentions to his old love."
 "I know he was foolish, but not guilty. It is a mistake for
a married man to be too intimate with an old sweetheart,
even if he knows that he only gave her half a love, and that
his wife has his entire heart. People are always ready to talk
about those who have once been lovers; and Ida Lorimer
was weak enough to want a little of the old homage."

"She was more than weak," I said, with a passion that

made Marian lift a warning finger. "She is a wicked, bold
woman. On Thursday night—after the picnic—she wrote a
shameful letter to my husband."

"That letter, Louie, is a puzzle to us all. You referred to

it in your farewell note to Ronald; and he, poor fellow, sent
me to Ida to know what was meant. He had received no
letter from her, and she declares she never wrote one."

"How can she dare to say she did not write it? Marian,
you will find the letter in the inner pocket of my hand-bag.
Take it and read it for yourself."

She rose to do my bidding; and then, pausing a

moment, fixed a steadfast look on my face. "Tell me first,
Louie," she said, "how this letter came into your
possession."

"It was brought to me by William Greystock. Ronald

dropped it in his office on Friday morning."

"It is as I suspected," said Marian, in a low voice. "That

man was at the bottom of all this mischief. Well, he will do
no more!"

She opened the bag, found the letter, and read it

attentively once or twice before she spoke again.
 "Yes, this is really Ida's handwriting," she admitted at
last. "Yet I am bound to believe her when she solemnly
declares that she never wrote to Ronald after the picnic.
Louie, you will let me send this note to her?"

"I don't know," I said, doubtfully. "I want Ronald to see

it; I want to hear what he will say to it."

"You shall see Ronald to-morrow, my dear child, and he

will set all your doubts at rest. I freely confess that this
note bewilders me, but I am, at any rate, quite certain that
it was never received by Ronald, nor dropped by him in
William Greystock's office. Louie, did not your heart tell you
that William Greystock was not a good man?"

At the recollection of that last interview with Greystock,

and our parting words to each other, I was covered with
confusion and shame. How had I suffered this man to
influence me? Why did I let him give me that hateful letter?
I saw now that I had done a great wrong in stealing away
from home, without first seeking an explanation from
Ronald.

"Marian," I said, "I have not done well. But I was ill and
over-excited and Ronald and I had been drifting farther and
farther apart before that dreadful day came. I am calmer
now, clear, although I am very, very weak."

While I spoke these words the tears were fast running

down my cheeks, and Marian kissed me and wept too.

"It is the old story, Louie," she said, with a sigh:

"And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny, and youth is vain;