"You must. We could give no reason. I would not have this guessed for anything! I do not know how I have come to say so much. It has been foolish—selfish of me! To spoil your pleasure for no good. But the burden seemed more than I could endure alone." "I'm glad you told me." She wondered vaguely—might not some word of trust be helpful here? People had to trust in trouble. Mrs. Landor would say so at once. But the trouble seemed so real, and the trust so dim. Euphrasia could not feel conscious of anything like real trust within herself; and how then might she advise another to exercise it? No, all she could do was to give up going away, and stay at home, to be, if possible, some little comfort to him. But she strove in vain. His will was as a flint in opposition. The dread lest anything might in consequence be guessed overmastered all other considerations. To Euphrasia the fear seemed unreasonable, but she had no power to make him see as she saw. "If you had decided against it earlier—of your own will—before I spoke, that would have been different," he said once, wistfully. And a stab of self-reproach shot through the girl, for she knew "now" that conscience had spoken plainly, and that she had refused to listen. "But not since I have spoken—not on any account! I could not permit it!" When she pleaded further, a look of distress and confusion came. "I cannot stand discussion. You must go, my dear, and enjoy yourself. Nothing can alter the plan now." Euphrasia's train was not until after mid-day. And an early message from Mrs. Landor intimated that a good-bye call was expected at the Rectory. "I told you she would not be pleased if you didn't go," Mrs. Mackenzie observed. "Mother, I was there the day before yesterday." "Well, you must run round again now. There's no need to stay long, and your packing is finished." Mrs. Landor was always especially kind to Euphrasia, treating her in some sort as she would have treated a favourite niece. She had no nieces, and she had known "Little Eyebright" from infancy. Euphrasia gave much quiet love to Mrs. Landor—a steady affection, without romance, but reliable. Although Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Landor had, since her marriage some ten or twelve years earlier, lived always at the Rectory. Her own house lay at a good distance—inconveniently far for the clergyman. So it was let to strangers, and she quietly devoted herself to Parish work. Some people thought and whispered that Mrs. Landor's affairs had become involved, and that her wealth was by no means what it once had been. She seldom spoke of her own affairs, however, and conjecture went no further. "Did you mean to flit without one word to me?" Mrs. Landor asked, when the girl came slowly in.