“All that Herefordshire rubbish of model farm and farming-stock had better be sold at once. You are not going into that humbug like the late Lord, I suppose?” “I have come to no determination about Lackington Court as yet,” said Beecher, coldly. “The sooner you do, then, the better. There's not a more rotten piece of expense in the world than southdowns and shorthorns, except it be Cochin-China hens and blue tulips.” “Let Fordyce look to my subscriptions at the clubs.” “Pure waste of money when you are not going back there.” “But who says that I am not?” asked Beecher, angrily. “Not yet a bit, at all events,” replied Davis, and with a grin of malicious meaning so significant that Beecher actually sickened with terror. “It will be quite time enough to make further arrangements when I confer with the members of my family,” said Beecher, haughtily. To this speech Davis only answered by another grin, that spoke as plain as words could, “Even the high tone will have no effect upon _me_.” Luckily this penance was not long to endure, for Lizzy had drawn her father aside, and was whispering a few last words to him. It was in a voice so low and subdued they spoke that nothing could be heard; but Beecher imagined or fancied he heard Grog mutter, “'Pluck' will do it; 'pluck' will do anything.” A long, affectionate embrace, and a fondly uttered “Good-bye, girl,” followed, and then, shaking hands with Beecher, Davis lighted his cigar and departed. Lizzy opened the window, and, leaning over the balcony, watched the carriage as it sped along the valley, the lights appearing and disappearing at intervals. What thoughts were hers as she stood there? Who knows? Did she sorrow after him, the one sole being who had cared for her through life; did her heart sadden at the sense of desertion; was the loneliness of her lot in life then uppermost in her mind; or did she feel a sort of freedom in the thought that now she was to be self-guided and self-dependent? I know not. I can only say that, though a slight flush colored her cheek, she shed no tears; and as she closed the window and returned into the room, her features were calm and emotionless. “Why did not papa take the route by Strasburg? It is much the shortest?” “He couldn't,” said Beecher, with a triumphant bitterness,--“he could n't. He can't go near Paris.” “By Verviers, then, and Belgium?” said she, reddening. “He'd be arrested in Belgium and tried for his life. He has no road left but down the Rhine to Rotterdam.” “Poor fellow!” said she, rising, “it must be a real peril that turns _him_ from his path.” There was an accent on the pronoun that almost made the speech a sarcasm; at all events, ere Beecher could notice it, she had left the room.