In a few minutes he returned to say the ostler would take the letter, and Mr Portland despatched the missive on its way. It contained but a very few words, only, ‘What is the reason of this delay? Pray come at once! Am waiting here impatiently. JACK.’ He did not know into whose hands it might fall, so thought it best to be as curt as possible, and then he sat down to get through the time as best he might till his messenger returned. How trying are the moments when we wait in utter darkness, the explanation of some mystery which is inexplicable to us. What a thousand and one fancies rush through our brain, as we attempt to penetrate what is impenetrable! How we ‘think’ it may be that--or we ‘fancy’ it must be this--or we ‘fear’ the other. Then, tired out with conjecture, we resolve not to think at all, but wait the natural sequence of events, only to fall back upon fancy and worry ourselves to death with imagination, and, after all, it usually turns out to be nothing--a bogy conjectured up by our anxiety--due as likely as not to the selfishness of our friend, who had not sufficient feeling for us to suspect what we were suffering on his behalf. We have all, at some time or other, experienced the feeling of suspense under which Mr Portland was suffering now,--yes, actually _suffering_! This selfish, immoral, dishonourable man had found his match at last in fate. Nell Llewellyn was the one creature who had ever awakened any better or higher feelings in his hardened heart, and he was suffering the agony of thinking that she might have repented of her bargain and meant to play him false as he had played so many other people. The ostler took his time to walk to Panty-cuckoo Farm. He was going to be paid for his trouble under any circumstances, so he didn’t see the fun of hurrying himself. Besides, the farm was more than a mile away, and one mile makes two on a dark night, so it was twelve o’clock before the waiter reappeared with Mr Portland’s own note on a salver. ‘If you please, sir, the hostler, he ‘ave been to Panty-cuckoo Farm, but everybody’s a-bed, and he couldn’t make no one hear.’ ‘Couldn’t make anybody hear!’ exclaimed Jack Portland, starting to his feet; ‘what was the fool about? Why didn’t he knock till he _did_ make some one hear? What was the good of his going, when he only brings me my own note back again?’ ‘Well, sir; he did throw stones at the bedroom winders, but no one took no notice of ’im, so Joe, he thought, ’twas no use waiting about there any longer at this time o’ night, so he bringed the note back again, and, perhaps, you’d like me to send it up the first thing in the morning.’ ‘No, no,’ replied Jack Portland, angrily; ‘the ostler is a d----d fool for his pains, and you may tell him I said so. Leave the note on the table and leave the room. I wish to be alone!’ ‘Are we to shut up, sir? Will the lady come to-night, do you think? The last train was in an hour ago!’