"Mr Bray came to tell me of the illness of a very dear friend," said Ella pitifully; "and now I come to ask your consent to absent myself for a few days." "Of course, I might have known that that was coming! Certainly not, Miss Bedford! And until I have communicated with Mrs Brandon, I desire you do not leave the house. What next, I wonder?" "Mr Bray brought me letters. It is a matter of life and death!" said Ella earnestly. "Surely, madam, in such a case you will not refuse me?" "And pray who is it that is ill?" said Mrs Marter sneeringly. Ella was silent. She could not have spoken then, in spite of every effort, even to have saved her life. "I can see through it all! I am not blind!" exclaimed Mrs Marter. "I shall certainly not give my consent, Miss Bedford. It is a planned affair, and I have been deceived. Now leave the room." Ella would have spoken, but she felt that it would have been without avail; and hurrying out, she once more sought her own chamber. What did Mrs Marter mean? What was planned? Impossible! She had the proof in those letters. And once more she read them with beating heart before asking herself whether she would be doing right or wrong. What had she promised? To meet Max Bray at four--to trust herself to his guidance. What had she to fear? Surely scheming baseness could never go so low! But it was absurd! She had those letters, and did she not know the handwriting? She examined her purse. The store was slender, but not so small as of old. Then she prepared a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag before referring again and again to the time, which seemed to lag slowly by, as she pictured scene after scene of misery and death, till she seated herself at a table, and rested her aching throbbing brow upon her hands. About two o'clock a message came from Mrs Marter to know why she did not attend the young ladies' dinner; when, starting up, she descended, matters of the present having quite escaped her in the rush of terrible thoughts which swept through her brain. She went through her duties mechanically, hurrying back as soon as she possibly could to her room, and dressed for a journey; when standing, bag in hand, ready, and waiting for the appointed hour, now very near at hand, a strange nervous dread began to oppress her--a cold shivering sense of evil, which made her hands feel damp and cold, and her lips hot, parched, and dry. Twenty times over she was about to tear off her things and give up, but her hand seemed to go mechanically to her breast, when a touch of those letters strengthened her resolve. She felt then that she must go-- something was drawing her that she could not resist. But again began the shrinking, and each time to be struggled with till the dread was beaten; and at last, waking from a wild, nervous, excited struggle between strength and indecision, Ella found that the hour was long past, and, bag in hand, she fled down the stairs.