She sent off George to the neighbouring public-house "The Jolly Spades," with a shilling, to make himself glad, and render his nature even more comatose than usual on "home-brewed." George went off exultant, declaring that she "was a raal leddy, that she were," and that he would drink her health--so _he_ was disposed of. The old lady was miles away, and so was Tom, too, at the pic-nic; the old woman servant was deep in the kitchen or somewhere else downstairs; and thus nobody saw Miss Kingscott leave the house with Susan. There was only herself to prove it. They met Markworth at the stile; and Miss Kingscott, telling him briefly "I have kept my part of the compact," to which he as briefly replied "I will keep mine; you shall hear from me in a month," returned to the house. They had arranged matters previously, as we have seen. Her entrance was as unobserved as her exit. Susan was overjoyed at being out, and, above all, being out with Markworth--without even "that governess," whom she partially disliked-- and away from the house and her mother. It was quite a fairy holiday for her; and although she was now as reasoning a being as any of us, and had quite recovered her senses, she asked no questions: she left everything in Markworth's hands, as she looked up to him as a superior to whom every obedience was due, and who would do everything for the best. He led the way over the fields, Susan walking by his side like a child engrossed by her own happy thoughts, and the novelty of everything around her--it was a new world to her-- towards the Bigglethorpe station, on the "up line;" this was where he had got out: it was above Hartwood, so nobody could recognise him. "How would you like to be with me always, Susan? To go away and never come back to the old house again, and all its horrors." "Oh! that would be so happy if I were with you," she said, in joy; "but my mother would never let me," she continued, her tone changing to one of sadness. "Suppose she knew nothing about it, Susan? We won't tell her, and will go away now, and never come back." "Can we? can we?" she exclaimed, with startling earnestness; "you are not laughing at me?" "I mean it, Susan. You shall come with me now if you like. I will take you up to London and marry you, and then nobody can take you away. Will you come?" "Will I?" she repeated with emotion; "I will go anywhere with you." And she clung to his arm with a child's touching trust. They took the train at Bigglethorpe and in due time arrived at the Waterloo Station, where Mr Begg, looking like a very respectable old gentleman, but small and spare, met them. Markworth introduced him as "his uncle," and they drove together to the lodgings in Bloomsbury Street. On the way he led out Susan and made her converse with the ex-marker, who was much struck with her appearance, and her timid, hesitating way.