At an open window, looking steadfastly forth into the darkness, sat Mary Delaval. She had not stirred for hours, and she might have been asleep, so moveless was her attitude, had it not been for the fixed, earnest expression of her dark grey eye. One round white arm rested on the window-ledge, and her long black hair fell in loose masses over the snowy garments, which, constituting a lady’s _déshabillé_, reveal her beauties far less liberally than the costume she more inaptly terms “full dress.” Mary is reasoning with herself--generally an unsatisfactory process, and one that seldom leads to any definite conclusion; sadly, soberly, and painfully, she is recalling her past life, her selfish father, her injured mother, the hardships and trials of her youth, and the ray of sunshine that has tinged the last few weeks with its golden light. She never thought to entertain folly, madness, such as this; yet would she not have had it otherwise for worlds. Bitter are the dregs, but verily the poison is more than sweet. And now he is going away, and she will never, never see him again; that fair young face will never more greet her with its thrilling smile, those kindly joyous tones never more make music for her ear. To-morrow he will be gone. Perhaps he may fall in action--the beautiful brow gashed--the too well-known features cold and fixed in death: not if prayers can avert such a fate. Perhaps he will return distinguished and triumphant; but in either case what more will the poor governess have to do with the young hero, save to love him still? Yes, she may love him _now_--love him with all her heart and soul, without restraint, without self-reproach, for she will _never_ see him again. On that she is determined; their paths lie in different directions, like two ships that meet upon the waters and rejoice in each other’s companionship, and part, and know each other no more. It was foolish to sit up for him to-night; but it is the last, _last_ time, and she could not resist the temptation to wait and watch even for the very wheels that bore him home; and now it is over--all over--he will never know it; but she will always think of him and pray for him, and watch over Blanche for _his_ sake, and love him, adore him dotingly--madly--to the last; and cold, haughty, passionless Mary Delaval leant her head upon her two white arms, and sobbed like a broken-hearted child. We wonder if any man that walks the earth is worthy of the whole idolatrous devotion of a woman’s heart. Charlie was snoring sound asleep, whilst she who loved him wept and prayed and suffered. Go to sleep too, foolish Mary, and pleasant dreams to you: “Sorrow has your young days shaded;” it is but fair that your nights should glow in the rosy, fancy-brightened hues of joy. CHAPTER IX WANT