"I am coming, sir, I am coming--Consider," she added, with a sigh, "how lately I have been subjected to control--besides, I have not yet given my cousin the packet, and bid him fare-well--for ever. Yes, Frank," she said, "for ever!--there is a gulf between us--a gulf of absolute perdition;--where we go, you must not follow--what we do, you must not share in--Farewell--be happy!" [Illustration: Parting of Die and Frank on the Moor --242] In the attitude in which she bent from her horse, which was a Highland pony, her face, not perhaps altogether unwillingly, touched mine. She pressed my hand, while the tear that trembled in her eye found its way to my cheek instead of her own. It was a moment never to be forgotten--inexpressibly bitter, yet mixed with a sensation of pleasure so deeply soothing and affecting, as at once to unlock all the flood-gates of the heart. It was _but_ a moment, however; for, instantly recovering from the feeling to which she had involuntarily given way, she intimated to her companion she was ready to attend him, and putting their horses to a brisk pace, they were soon far distant from the place where I stood. Heaven knows, it was not apathy which loaded my frame and my tongue so much, that I could neither return Miss Vernon's half embrace, nor even answer her farewell. The word, though it rose to my tongue, seemed to choke in my throat like the fatal _guilty,_ which the delinquent who makes it his plea, knows must be followed by the doom of death. The surprise--the sorrow, almost stupified me. I remained motionless with the packet in my hand, gazing after them, as if endeavouring to count the sparkles which flew from the horses' hoofs. I continued to look after even these had ceased to be visible, and to listen for their footsteps long after the last distant trampling had died in my ears. At length, tears rushed to my eyes, glazed as they were by the exertion of straining after what was no longer to be seen. I wiped them mechanically, and almost without being aware that they were flowing--but they came thicker and thicker; I felt the tightening of the throat and breast--the _hysterica passio_ of poor Lear; and sitting down by the wayside, I shed a flood of the first and most bitter tears which had flowed from my eyes since childhood. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. _Dangle._--Egad, I think the interpreter is the harder to be understood of the two. Critic.