At last the day came when Harcourt felt that he must leave the pleasant country house, now that it was looking so beautiful in the early April weather, with grass and foliage, all of that tender emerald green only seen in the young spring, with the fruit trees all in blossom, with the hyacinths and daffodils, the tulips and jonquils, all budding in the flower bed; with the lovely crocuses and violets blooming all over the lawn—he must leave all that, and the genial family, and the dear mother, and the comforts of home, and go back to self-imposed servitude. True, Harcourt might have got more congenial employment as a teacher, but he told himself that he was unworthy to become an instructor of youth, and that nothing remained for him but manual labor. He took leave of all his kind friends, who parted from him with real regret. He bade a tender good-by to his old mother, who let him go very cheerfully, saying: “Your father and John say that you ought to go, and must go, and that I must not mind, as they will be with me. So I do not mean to hinder you, my boy.” “Yes,” said Harcourt sadly, “it is true. I ought to go, and I must go. Good-by, dear mother.” “God bless you, my good boy!” So they parted. Harcourt had intended to walk to Logwood, but when he stepped out upon the piazza he saw the pony carriage before the house, and Margaret Wynthrop, in a coat and hat, on the seat. “I have to go to do some shopping in Goeberlin, so, if you please, I will drive you there,” she said. “I thank you very much. But suppose you let me take the reins; would not that be more fitting?” he inquired as he stepped into the carriage. “As you please. But I am used to driving,” she said as she surrendered the “ribbons.” That drive up and down hill, through the tender, budding April woods, remained a pleasant episode of life in the memory of Will Harcourt. When they reached Logwood there was a full hour to spare before the train was due. “Now,” said Margaret, “will you go around with me on my shopping expedition, or shall you go directly to the depot?” “To the depot, if you please,” said Harcourt, for he thought that his company might really be an embarrassment to the young woman on such an occasion. They drove to the little wayside group of sheds that did duty as a depot, and Harcourt got out, thanked the young lady for the lift, took leave of her, and went into the station to buy his ticket and wait for the train. It promised to be a weary waiting, so he went out and walked up and down the platform for exercise. He had not passed more than twenty minutes in this manner when suddenly he saw Margaret Wythrop driving back toward the station and waving a letter in her hand. He hastened to meet her. “It is for you,” she said. “I have just taken it out of the post office. Good-by! good-by!” She handed the letter, turned the pony’s head, and drove off. Harcourt glanced at the superscription, reeled, and nearly fell to the ground.