Myles was striding quickly homewards. In the hurry, preparation, and excitement of the last two days his mind had regained somewhat its vigour. It was not that he felt at all happier, or satisfied, or contented--not that life appeared much brighter to him, only _it had to be lived_. He set that formula before his mind, and never allowed a doubt upon the subject to intrude, because he dared not. He felt that his only safe, his only reasonable course of action, was to press forward sternly and as rapidly as possible; to cast from him his old life like a worn-out coat, and begin the new one. There was the prospect before him of life, struggle, striving, which he knew was worth a hundred of the lives he had been leading, which he knew it was his duty to accept and fulfil. The mere idea of it--of the difficulties to be overcome, and the possibilities to be attained--attracted him and braced him up, even while all he must leave seemed to grow dearer and more desirable as it was thrust farther into the background. There was no turning back now; a delay was what he most dreaded. He had grown a little grim and hard in his resolute pressing forward; even Mary fancied that he left them with a kind of exultation, and grieved the more, even while she felt no surprise. This evening he walked rapidly up the hilly street, ‘for the last time,’ he kept saying to himself, and hoping so too. How he had loved this prosaic, commonplace, dingy manufacturing town! What memories hung about it! Memories of a childhood spent amongst those he loved, of a youth and young manhood, which had not been without their honest, hearty struggles, strivings, and conquests, as well as their backslidings and failures; memories of a love which had grown upon him, stealing into his heart by such gentle, subtle degrees that he could by no means define them--which love had become the master passion of his earnest heart, with heaven on its side, and chaos on the other. All this he had lived through in grimy, smoky Thanshope, with the everlasting roar of machinery as a sort of chorus; within sound of the melodius, chiming bells. His whole surroundings had ever been earnest and serious as his own thoughts and bent of mind, and he felt that no other home would ever be harmonious to him as this was. Yet he was going to leave it all to-morrow, and his heart beat with a fierce gladness at the thought. Occupied with such reflections as these, he found himself at his own door, and went into the house. Mary was in the kitchen. All her preparations lay neglected; she sat in her rocking-chair, with her hands before her, looking at nothing, her eyes wet with tears. ‘What ails you, Molly?’ ‘Eh, you’re there, Myles! Nothing ails me except thinking o’ what Miss Blisset’s been talking about.’ ‘Miss Blisset!’ he echoed in a gentle voice, pausing to look at her. ‘Has she been here?’