He found her in the gaoler's house. She and Mercy Vint were seated hand in hand. He started at first sight of the latter. There was a universal shaking of hands, and glistening of eyes. And, when this was over, Mrs. Gaunt turned to him, and said, piteously, "She will go back to Lancashire to-morrow; nothing I can say will turn her." "No, Dame," said Mercy, quietly, "Cumberland is no place for me. My work is done here. Our paths in this world do lie apart. George Neville, persuade her to go home at once, and not trouble about me." "Indeed, madam," said Sir George, "she speaks wisely: she always does. My carriage is at the door, and the people waiting by thousands in the street to welcome your deliverance." Mrs. Gaunt drew herself up with fiery and bitter disdain. "Are they so," said she, grimly. "Then I'll baulk them. I'll steal away in the dead of night. No, miserable populace, that howls and hisses with the strong against the weak, you shall have no part in my triumph; 'tis sacred to my friends. You honoured me with your hootings; you shall not disgrace me with your acclamations. Here I stay till Mercy Vint, my guardian angel, leaves me for ever." She then requested Sir George to order his horses hack to the inn, and the coachman was to hold himself in readiness to start when the whole town should be asleep. Meantime a courier was despatched to Hernshaw Castle, to prepare for Mrs. Gaunt's reception. Mrs. Menteith made a bed up for Mercy Vint, and, at midnight, when the coast was clear, came the parting. It was a sad one. Even Mercy, who had great self-command, could not then restrain her tears. To apply the sweet and touching words of Scripture, "They sorrowed most of all for this, that they should see each other's face no more." Sir George accompanied Mrs. Gaunt to Hernshaw. She drew back into her corner of the carriage, and was very silent and distrait. After one or two attempts at conversation, he judged it wisest and even most polite to respect her mood. At last she burst out, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!" "Why, what is amiss?" inquired Sir George. "What is amiss? Why, 'tis all amiss. 'Tis so heartless, so ungrateful, to let that poor angel go home to Lancashire all alone, now she has served my turn. Sir George, do not think I undervalue your company, but if you _would_ but take her home instead of taking me! Poor thing, she is brave; but, when the excitement of her good action is over, and she goes back the weary road all alone, what desolation it will be. My heart bleeds for her. I know I am an unconscionable woman, to ask such a thing; but then you are a true chevalier; you always were; and you saw her merit directly; oh, do pray leave me to slip unnoticed into Hernshaw Castle, and do you accompany my benefactress to her humble home. Will you, dear Sir George? 'Twould be such a load off my heart."