It was half-past eight; by nine o'clock--at the very latest by half-past nine--he would surely answer that loving letter. Nine o'clock struck, and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock--to eleven--to noon. But long before that hour Maria had ceased to sew, ceased to watch, ceased to hope. Soon after twelve she saw Neil coming and her heart turned sick within her. She could hardly walk into the hall to meet him. She found it difficult to articulate the questioning word "Well?" He gave her the letter back. "Ernest sailed this morning at two o'clock," he said. She looked at him with angry despair. "You might have taken that letter last night. You have ruined my life. I will never forgive you." "Maria, listen to me. Ernest went on board an hour before you asked me. The ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on her at half-past ten. I could not have given him the letter, even if I had tried to." "No; of all the nights in the year, you must stop out last night until twelve o'clock! I never knew you do such a thing before; well, as grandmother says, it is destiny; I am going to my room. I want no dinner; don't let them worry me, or worry about me." Sitting alone she faced the circumstances she had evoked, considered them in every light, and came to a conclusion as to her future: "I will go to London, and make no fuss about it," she decided; "here I should miss Ernest wherever I went; miss him in every way, and people would make me feel he was absent. I have been a great trouble and expense to grandfather and grandmother. I dare say they will be glad to be quiet and alone again. I don't know much about father--he has always been generous with money--but I wonder if he cared much for me! He sent me away, first to nurses, then to school; I saw little of him, but I can make him care. As for Madame, my stepmother, I shall not let her annoy me. And there will be Mrs. Gordon for a refuge, if I need one. She has always been good to me, and I will see her at once. I cannot help understanding that I am come to the end of this road; but there are many roads in life, and from this moment, I am on the way to London." Evidently it was destiny, for there was never a let or hinderance in all her preparations. The Gordons took her as a godsend, and all her arrangements went without a hitch. And when it was known she was absolutely going away from New York there was a great access of kindness toward her. The young women she had known--and not always pleasantly--brought her good-bye mementoes; books to read on the voyage, book-marks of their own working, little bags and cases of various kinds for toilet needs, and needlework; and all were given with a conspicuous intention of apology for past offense and conciliation for any future intercourse.