When the time she was to set out for Bath was only two days off, the behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its usual form, if not a greater share of polite and tender attention than ever. It was the first time he had parted from Miss Milner since he became her guardian, and he felt upon the occasion, a reluctance. He had been angry with her, he had shewn her that he was, and he now began to wish that he had not. She is not happy, (he considered within himself) every word and action declares she is not; I may have been too severe, and added perhaps to her uneasiness. “At least we will part on good terms,” said he—“Indeed, my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise.” She soon discerned his returning kindness, and it was a gentle tie that would have fastened her to that spot for ever, but for the firm resistance of Miss Woodley. “What will the absence of a few months effect?” said she, pleading her own cause; “At the end of a few months at farthest, he will expect me back, and where then will be the merit of this separation?” “In that time,” replied Miss Woodley, “we may find some method to make it longer.” To this she listened with a kind of despair, but uttered, she “Was resigned,”—and she prepared for her departure. Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her journey should be commodious; he was eager she should be happy; and he was eager she should see that he entirely forgave her. He would have gone part of the way with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood, in whose chamber he passed most of the day, and slept in Elmwood House every night. On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could not restrain her tears; which increased, as he parted from her, to convulsive sobs. He was affected by her grief; and though he had previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said, with the tenderest concern, “My dear Miss Milner, we part friends?—I hope we do?—On my side, depend upon it, that I regret nothing so much at our separation, as having ever given you a moment’s pain.” “I believe so,” was all she could utter, for she hastened from him, lest his discerning eye should discover the cause of the weakness which thus overcame her. But her apprehensions were groundless; the rectitude of his own heart was a bar to the suspicion of her’s. He once more kindly bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.