But a change was coming, and Heather knew it—knew Alick was going away, that her best helper was about to be taken from her. Many a talk had the pair held together over the inevitable parting; many a word had they exchanged in the twilight, under the shadow of those dear old trees; and, if Alick thought Bessie’s words and talk had been more sad and more attractive, still he knew Heather’s discourse was the best, and so listened to it attentively. “You have been my very right hand, Alick,” she repeated over and over again; “and I do not know what I shall do without you.” “Nor I without you, mother,” he answered, sadly. “And you are going all alone, my boy, to a place which every one says is very, very wicked. I do not know much about wickedness myself, Alick,” she added, with that sweet simplicity that made her seem so inexpressibly innocent to people who _did_ know much about that wicked world, which was a _terra incognita_ to Heather Dudley; “but I hope, dear, that a person may be as good in London as in the country; that you will not be led away, nor fall into expensive habits, nor associate with undesirable people, if only for my sake, Alick.” “You darling mother!” “If ever anyone asks you to do what is wrong, it you are ever tempted to extravagance, to folly, or to sin,” she added, “think of me at Berrie Down, and of how your trouble would grieve me, Alick, will you?” “Mother, there is no need for fear; I hope there is no need.” “I hope not, either,” she answered; “but yet who, setting out to travel a strange road, can tell what companions he may meet with by the way—what troubles may assail him? More than all, Alick,” and the sweet voice which was never hurried, never much excited, grew low and pleading as she spoke, “If ever you do fall into any trouble, promise to come and tell me; promise, whether I can help you or not, to come and talk it over. If you cannot come to me, I will go to you; and do not think any sin or sorrow—however bad it may seem to you—too bad to tell me. If you have to bear its consequences, I can bear to hear of it. Promise me, Alick! If I think you mean to keep no great sorrow from me, I can let you go—not otherwise.” “Mother—Heather—what are you afraid of?” he asked. “I am afraid of nothing except the indefinite,” she answered, through her tears. “It is a new country to me this life on which you are entering. Were I going to explore it myself, probably it would not seem so terrible. Promise, Alick.” “I promise,” he answered; and then their talk flowed on to calmer ground—to such commonplace affairs as, “where he should lodge, what amount of worldly belongings he should take with him, what edibles it would be advisable for Heather to send for him to his London home.”