Stop! I must be true. Was I quite happy? Did I rejoice in the thought that Mr. Marsden would have no means of tracing me if he wished to do so, and that under the circumstances I should soon be forgotten? Again, I must own that my happiness was not quite without alloy, and I wondered whether, if he cared so much for me, I had a right to risk his as well as my own. I was half tempted to send a line to Mrs. Jennings, "just to inform her of my arrival," I said to myself, and then I scouted the idea. If I had written, my letter would have been for no such purpose, but from a cowardly regret for having run away, and to give Mr. Marsden a chance of following and finding me. In my own mind I pictured the scene at the farm, when Mrs. Jennings delivered my farewell messages to them. I could imagine Mr. Marsden's dismay and his friend's sympathy, which would be half congratulatory. I seemed to hear inquiries after my destination, and Mrs. Jennings' reply that she did not know it. Then there would be a hunt for the letter I had written when seeking accommodation; but that would be vain, as I had myself twisted it up as a pipe-lighter for Mr. Jennings. There was little writing done at the farm. I had really answered my own note, for I had sent an addressed envelope, and told them just to write the word Yes' on a slip of paper if they could take me in, and I had been obeyed to the very letter. There would not be a scrap of writing which would guide Mr. Marsden either to High Lea or Hillstowe Vicarage. To the latter, Mary Baxendell and I returned in company. The girl was a sweet, sympathetic creature, to whom I spoke with much freedom on most subjects, but, it is needless to say, not on that nearest of all to my heart. I kept it to myself, and it was hard work, because human sympathy at such times is very precious. Only at mornings and nights, as I knelt in my quiet room, with no sound but Dot's gentle breathing to reach my ear, did I open my heart and pray, "Father, I do desire to be numbered amongst those that love and serve Thee. Do Thou make all things to work together for my good, and help me, at all cost to self, to do what is right." We had trouble at the vicarage that autumn. Good Mr. Barr became seriously ill, and Mrs. Barr was almost worn out with anxiety and nursing. I did my utmost to relieve her, but there were so many things in which only a wife or an elder nurse could be of use. I grieved to see her so overwrought. I knew what a terrible difference this illness would make on the wrong side in the income, all too little for the brightest days. Friends were kind, and many helps came from generous hands, but more were needed. I was afraid Mrs. Barr would break down, and then what would become of the vicar and the children?