A fortnight has elapsed and I sit here in my study at Merivale, idly adding these words to this book of mine which it seems is never destined to be finished. As my pen traces these words, I am conscious of the door opening softly, but, pretending absorption in my task, I never so much as lift my head but glance up surreptitiously to behold my aunt Julia, a little pale, her proud, full-lipped mouth not quite so firm as of old, but handsomer, lovelier than ever in her black gown, it seems to me. "O Peregrine, do you really mean to go?" "I do!" "Ah, will you run away again, from us--from your duties--will you leave Diana to break her heart?" "Can hearts break, dear Aunt?" "Oh, poor Diana, poor child--after all she has done for you--" "Indeed, Aunt, she has done a great deal for me, I admit--but--" "You know how she came in the dead of night to warn your uncles of your peril--your mad folly? You know this?" "Yes, yes, dear Aunt," said I, a little impatiently. "I know, too, how my noble uncles very nearly quarrelled as to which of them should risk his life for unworthy, miserable me--" "It was George rode away first that dreadful morning," said my aunt, clasping her shapely hands, "and I shall never forget the look on the face of Jervas when he found that George had stolen away before him--poor, brave Jervas!" "Yes, Aunt! If the place of meeting had not been altered--it would have been--uncle George, perhaps." "Ah, yes!" sighed my aunt, shuddering and bowing pale face above her clasped hands. "But Diana--saved you, Peregrine." "At least, Aunt, she caused a better man to die in my stead. As he is to-day, I would be--at rest!" "Hush, oh, hush, Peregrine, you talk wildly! Indeed, sometimes I think you have never been quite the same since your illness, you are so much colder--less kind and gentle. And now you mean to go away again! What of the estate--your tenants?" "Surely I cannot leave them in better, more capable hands than these, dear Aunt Julia!" and stooping, I kissed her slim, white fingers. "But go I must--I cannot bear a house; I want space--the open road, woods, the sweet, clean wind!" "Where shall you go, Peregrine?" "Anywhere--though first to London." "And what of your book?" "I shall never finish it, now!" "And what of me? Will you leave me lonely? O Peregrine, can you leave me thus in my sorrow?" "Hush, dear Aunt--listen!" Through the open casement stole a soft, small sound--a jingle of spurs, the monotonous tramp of one who paced solitary upon the terrace below. "Your uncle George!" she breathed, her hands clasped themselves anew and into her pale cheeks crept a tinge of warm colour. "I did not expect--your uncle George today!" "He is lonely too, Aunt Julia. He does nothing but grieve! Indeed I think he is breaking his great generous heart for the brother he loved and honoured so devotedly." "Poor--poor George!"