"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleep another night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to the heart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, and those--those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly have made a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but still it seems my duty _to_ live, and I am convinced that another night here would be my death." "I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same time I am bound to tell you that--a--that the disturbance of which you speak is of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to--to human agency altogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we can wait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, you say, Margaret. And--but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you the sequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say-- You have ordered Willis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks." Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with an unexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help Miss Sophronia with her packing. An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at the door, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr. Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit had ended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia's pardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heart was full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she might have tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore, she declared, no malice to any one. "I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you in every way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been with you these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves are restored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make any changes, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my dear cousin, is the thing I should most recommend. Missing me as you will,--a companion of your own age,--you might still marry, dearest John, you might indeed. Emily--" "That will do, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, sternly. "Have you everything you want for the journey?" "Everything, I think, dear John. Ah! well, good-bye, Margaret! It has been a blow to find that you do not love me, my dear, as I have loved you, but we must bear our burdens." "What do you--what can you mean, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, turning crimson. "I am sure I have tried--" "Ah! well, my dear, one gives oneself away," said the lady. "You said in your letter to your cousin,--I recall the precise words--'I have tried to love her, but I cannot succeed.' Yes; very painful to one who has a heart like mine; but I find so few--"