‘It will be for the last, for some time, Aunt Jenny. I leave Castle Barfield to-morrow.’ ‘Leave Barfield?’ cried the old woman. ‘Why, Dick, wheer are ye goin’? You ain’t agoin’ to do nothin’ rash, that I do hope.’ ‘I am going to London,’ said Dick, ‘and I must see Julia before I go. You must help me. You are going to the house now, aren’t you?’ ‘Going to London?’ repeated Mrs. Eusker, who had no ears for the last words after that announcement. ‘What’s made you so hot foot to go to London all of a minute like?’ ‘It was decided to-day. My father suspects what is going on. I feel sure of it, though he has never said a word about it. You know he always meant to make a doctor of me--it was my own choice when I was quite a little fellow, and it has always been understood. Last month he asked me if I was of the same mind still, and to-day he told me that my seat is taken in the coach from Birmingham. You know my father, Aunt Jenny, as well as I do. He has been a very good father to me, and I would not give him pain or trouble for the world. I could not refuse. Indeed, it is my last chance of ever doing anything for myself and making a home for Julia.’ ‘My dear, they’ll never hear on it, nayther of ‘em. Samson Mountain ‘d rather see his daughter in her coffin than married to any kin of Abel Reddy’s. Though he loves her, too, in a kind o’ way. An’ your father’s jist as hard; he’s on’y quieter with it, that’s all They’ll niver consent Niver, i’ this world.’ ‘Then we must do without their consent, that’s all. I must see Julia to-night, and you must help me. Tell her that I am here and must see her. Oh, Aunt Jenny, you are surely not going to desert us now, after helping us so often.’ ‘I’m dub’ous, my dear. I hope good may come of it, but I’m dub’ous. I’m doubtful if I did right in helping you, again your father’s will, an’ Mr. Mountain’s, too.’ ‘You won’t refuse to do so little, after doing so much,’ pleaded the young man. ‘Why, it was at your house that I used to meet her, when we were children together, and you first christened us Romeo and Juliet.’ ‘A name o’ bad omen, my dear. I wish I hadn’t gi’en it to you now.’ ‘For niver was a story o’ more woe, Than this o’ Jewliet an’ her Romeo.’ ‘I don’t believe much in omens,’ said Dick. ‘But you will tell Julia that I am here, won’t you? It’s the last time, for ever so long.’ ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Mrs. Rusker. ‘But don’t stay here; goo down to the Five Ash. Mr. Mountain’s gone to Burmungem, an’ he’ll come across this way when he comes back. You must tek a bit o’ care, Dick, for the gell’s sake.’ ‘I’ll take care, dear. It’s good-bye this time, Aunt. You’ve been very good to me always, and I shan’t forget your kindness while I’m away. And you’ll be good to Julia, too, while--while I’m away, won’t you?’