"'Tis likely they found it convenient to get rid of me," she returned, a little bitterly. "But I bear them no malice. I have been pardoned too much myself not to forgive others. I had not said even the form of a prayer for years before I came here. I had lost all faith in the old religion, and I knew no other. But one day looking for something wherewith to divert myself, I found a Latin Bible. I read and read, and by degrees the light came to me, and the truth made me free." "And what then, dear sister?" "There is little more to tell," she answered. "His Grace was good enough to call me cousin before Martha, and bade her treat me with all respect. She is a good, faithful creature, and I love her as a sister. She grows infirm, and I fear may not last long. But I am old, too," she added, with a smile. "Loveday, the first time I looked into a mirror, I started back in affright. I did not know my own face." I would have liked to ask her a hundred questions, but there was no more time. It was drawing toward sunset, and I had been told to be ready by nightfall. Denys helped me to finish my packing and to arrange securely the money and jewels I had about me, and I was soon all ready. As soon as it was dark, the same messenger who had brought the litter, appeared with two horses, and we took a last farewell of our woodland Patmos. Denys kissed and blessed me at parting. "We shall never meet again, but I am most thankful to have seen your face once more," said she. "You were my first comforter, little Loveday, and if my prayers can call down blessings, you will not want them. Farewell, dear, precious child, till we meet in the Paradise above." I had to go at last. As we rode down the overgrown avenue I looked backed and saw her standing in the door. She waved her hand, and then the trees closed in, and I never saw her again. I heard afterward that she died, after all, before poor old Martha. But she was ready to go, and it was a blessed release. How little I guessed, when I used to look at our house at Dartford and speculate as to the rooms I was not allowed to enter, that my old friend and teacher was pining away her young life in one of them. They meant it for mercy, and I dare say ran a great risk in keeping her where they did, but it was a doubtful mercy, after all. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII. "EXILED, AND YET AT HOME." WE rode all that night, and in the morning we found ourselves in a small seaport town, or rather fishing village, for it was little more. There was but scant time for me to observe it. There was a low-lying fog, and we could not even see the edge of the water in the dull twilight. A breeze sprung up with the sun, however, the fog lifted like a curtain, and showed a tolerably-sized vessel lying off shore. "There she is, thank Heaven!" said our conductor. "But we must waste no time. It will not do to lose this breeze."