Mrs. Johnston, overhearing this, took herself off with great celerity, to escape the need of pressing for a longer stay. Euphrasia's glance was apologetic, almost to the extent of begging pardon. "I ought to go." "To-morrow is too soon. Monday, if you like. I should have preferred another week's delay, as a measure of precaution, but it is not essential. To keep you here against your will is hardly fair." "Oh, but it is not—" Euphrasia stopped. And he went on, as if he had not heard. "On Monday I have to travel in your direction, and, if you do not object, I can escort you part of the way. The change of trains you could hardly manage alone. I will see you through that, and into your own train, after which you will only have to sit still until you get to West Norton. Somebody must meet you there. It will not do for you to depend upon yourself. A slight strain now would throw you back for weeks." "How good you are!" she said gratefully. He put a slip of paper into her hand with unmoved countenance. "The trains are written down, so you can tell your father when to meet you." "But it will be a trouble—" "Not in the least." He spoke distantly still. "I have to go on business. This letter was lying on the hall table." "Oh, thank you. From my mother!" Mr. Wells made an unusually rapid exit, and Euphrasia lay musing with the unopened envelope in her hand. "I must have said something to vex him yesterday, but what could it have been? He has not been like this before. How could I guess that he meant it all as a friend? Nobody told me; and it would have been such a cool thing to take for granted! I don't think he ought to be annoyed—if he is annoyed! I am not sure; it is almost more like being pained or disappointed." For ten minutes the letter in her hand was forgotten, then she turned to it with a start of recollection—"Oh, how stupid! What is the use of bothering myself? If he does misunderstand, I can't do anything to alter it. Fancy forgetting to open my letter!" Within was a blotted scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie. "Your father seems to think," she wrote, "that there is no need to tell you what has happened until you come home. But I really do not see the use of putting off, and he says I am to do just as I like. You will be coming back soon now, I suppose, and then of course you would have to know." Was this the dreaded failure and loss of all, which Euphrasia had so dwelt upon during the first weeks of her imprisonment? She had not thought much of the matter lately, her mind having been full of other subjects; and the forgetfulness occurred to her as curious, even while she eagerly glanced on to see what was wrong.