"I will go to Cale. He will know. He will tell me. He will see it cannot be true. This love Mr. Ewart feels for me is not, never has been, a father's love. No two human beings could be so drawn the one to the other, as we have been, with _that_ tie between them. It is preposterous on the face of it. It is a monstrosity, born of conflicting circumstances." The energy of life was returning. I undressed. I bathed face and head and arms. I dressed again in fresh garments. I opened the door; the dog rose, wagging his tail. I slipped noiselessly down the back stairs and found that Cale had been before me. The fire was made; the water in the kettle boiling. I made the coffee; worked over my bread; fried the bacon; broke the eggs for the omelette; whisked up some "gems" and put them into the oven. The mill-wheel no longer turned. When Cale came in, I sent him upstairs with a pitcher of hot water for the Doctor. "Seems like home ter see you round again, Marcia," he said, as he took the pitcher. "It seems good to be at home again." I tried to speak cheerfully. Doctor Rugvie gave me one long searching look, when he took his place at the breakfast table. Then he paid his attention to the omelette which he ate with evident relish. We talked of this and that. I went out into the hall with him. "Goodby, Marcia." He put out his hand. "Wire me just a word from time to time--I have left the California address on the library table." "Goodby--I shall not forget." That was all. But I drew a long breath of relief when I could no longer see the carriage. I feel sure he, too, drew another. All the forenoon I was busy packing, helping Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I gave myself not a moment's rest; I dared not. Only once, just after dinner, and three hours before they were to leave for Montreal, I went up to my room to be alone for a minute or two; to gain strength to go through the rest of the time, before parting with my friends. I had been there not five minutes when Mrs. Macleod rapped. "Come in," I said a little wearily. She entered and came directly to where I sat by the window. She put her arms around me,--motherly-wise as I fancied,--and spoke to me: "Marcia, my dear, I cannot leave you without telling you I have seen it all. I speak as an older woman to a younger. Dear child, I wish you joy; you deserve all that is in store for you--and there is so much for you, so much here in the old manor. I am so happy for you and with you, my dear." I lifted my face to hers and she kissed me. "I don't like to leave you here; it goes against me--there is no woman near you; and you cannot remain in the circumstances, you know, my dear, after Mr. Ewart returns. I only wish you would come with us. But that would never do; Mr. Ewart would be my enemy for life, and I could not blame him." "Cale will be here," I said. "I have been wanting to tell you something."