He left her and she sat still, gazing into the fire. She was grateful to Jim Preston—very grateful to him; she felt that she had one more friend in the world than she had thought to have an hour ago; still, her perplexity and trouble were greater than anything else could be. Jim Preston could do no more for her than what he had done—than promise not to renew his suit. And she sat gazing into the flames that had swallowed her last hope. She saw her father join the young man at the garden gate, and walk with him down the road; she saw him stop suddenly, shaking his stick in the air, then stride forward, striking it furiously against the stones. She knew that what he was hearing was in no way appeasing his wrath against her; but she was past trembling, only she knew that she must make up her mind at once—before he came home—as to what she must do. Yes; and there was only one thing she _could_ do: go to Charley. Somehow or other she must find him and go to him—_at once_. And still she sat looking into the red embers, where fluttered the gossamer remnants of her lost letter—the letter that would have told her what to do—where to find him who alone could save her. A lump rose in her throat, but she choked it down. That the letter should have come at all showed that Charley was safe, and if he was safe he loved her, he would protect her. Why should she cry? Surely she could trace him somehow! She swallowed her grief and set herself to think, seriously, practically, as she had never been wont to think before. But the more she thought the better she realized that she could not find Charley—that she had no clue to his whereabouts—that there was nothing, nothing to be done but to wait till he came. Yet perhaps the letter had said that he was not coming, that he dared not show himself, or that for some other reason it was best she should come to him. Lady Day was past when he had promised her to return, and perhaps that was the reason. He had told her in that letter where to come to him, and the letter was gone, and its secret with it. She rose, pressing her hands to her aching brow. How dared she wait for him—even a week longer? A week would seem little to him, guessing naught of her trouble: but if he knew, if he only knew!... For at any moment her secret might be discovered, and then her father might kill her! Yes, she believed he would kill her! Ah, she must go, she must go at once. She must leave home, leave the village; take refuge somewhere, in some place where she was not known, and try to find work and invent some means of letting Charley know. Her mother came into the room. She had her best dress on, but her eyes were red and she had a scared look. “What,” said she, looking round, “is he gone? Well, ’ave ye settled it?” “Settled what?” replied Bess wearily.