The troubled glory passed—it throbbed itself away; the spiritual gusts of thought grew continually fainter, till, like the echoes of a dying harp, like the breath of a falling gale, they slowly sank to nothingness. Then wearied with an extreme of wild emotion Beatrice sought her bed again and presently was lost in sleep. When Geoffrey woke on the next morning, after a little reflection, he came to the decision that he had experienced a very curious and moving dream, consequent on the exciting events of the previous day, or on the pain of his impending departure. He rose, packed his bag—everything else was ready—and went in to breakfast. Beatrice did not appear till it was half over. She looked very pale, and said that she had been packing Effie’s things. Geoffrey noticed that she barely touched his fingers when he rose to shake hands with her, and that she studiously avoided his glance. Then he began to wonder if she also had strangely dreamed. Next came the bustle of departure. Effie was despatched in the fly with the luggage and Betty, the fat Welsh servant, to look after her. Beatrice and Geoffrey were to walk to the station. “Time for you to be going, Mr. Bingham,” said Mr. Granger. “There, good-bye, good-bye! God bless you! Never had such charming lodgers before. Hope you will come back again, I’m sure. By the way, they are certain to summon you as a witness at the trial of that villain Jones.” “Good-bye, Mr. Granger,” Geoffrey answered; “you must come and see me in town. A change will do you good.” “Well, perhaps I may. I have not had a change for twenty-five years. Never could afford it. Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Elizabeth?” “Good-bye, Miss Granger,” said Geoffrey politely. “Many thanks for all your kindness. I hope we shall meet again.” “Do you?” answered Elizabeth; “so do I. I am sure that we shall meet again, and I am sure that I shall be glad to see you when we do, Mr. Bingham,” she added darkly. In another minute he had left the Vicarage and, with Beatrice at his side, was walking smartly towards the station. “This is very melancholy,” he said, after a few moments’ silence. “Going away generally is,” she answered—“either for those who go or those who stay behind,” she added. “Or for both,” he said. Then came another pause; he broke it. “Miss Beatrice, may I write to you?” “Certainly, if you like.” “And will you answer my letters?” “Yes, I will answer them.” “If I had my way, then, you should spend a good deal of your time in writing,” he said. “You don’t know,” he added earnestly, “what a delight it has been to me to learn to know you. I have had no greater pleasure in my life.” “I am glad,” Beatrice answered shortly. “By the way,” Geoffrey said presently, “there is something I want to ask you. You are as good as a reference book for quotations, you know. Some lines have been haunting me for the last twelve hours, and I cannot remember where they come from.”