“I really do not understand you.” “You don't?” “No. Certainly not. What do you mean?” “Possibly you did not understand me. Well, if I am to go, there 's no time to be lost. It's four o'clock already, and the last train leaves at five-forty. I will go.” “You are quite right.” “You 'll make my excuses to the Chief. You 'll tell him that my wife's message was so alarming that I could not delay my departure. Beattie will probably be back tomorrow, and bring you news of us.” “Won't you write a few lines?” “I 'm not sure,--I 'll not promise. I'm a bad penman, but my wife will write, I 've no doubt. Say all sorts of affectionate and dutiful things to the Chief for me; tell him I went away in despair at not being able to say good-bye; he likes that style of thing, does n't he?” “I don't think he cares much for 'that style of thing,'” said she, with a saucy smile. “What a capital mimic you are! Do you know I am just beginning to suspect that you are, for all your quiet simplicity of manner, a deuced deep one. Am I right?” She shook her head, but made no reply. “Not that I 'd like you the less for it,” said he, eagerly; “on the contrary, we 'd understand each other all the better; there's nothing like people talking the same language, eh?” “I hope you'll not lose your train,” said she, looking at her watch; “I am half-past four.” “A broad hint,” said he, laughing; “bye-bye,--_à bientôt_.” CHAPTER XXXV. BEATTIE'S RETURN The old Chief sat alone in his dining-room over his wine. If somewhat fatigued by the labors of the day,--for the Court had sat late,--he showed little of exhaustion; still less was he, as his years might have excused, drowsy or heavy. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and by an occasional gesture of his hand, or motion of his head, seemed as though he were giving assent to some statement he was listening to, or making his comments on it as it proceeded. The post had brought a letter to Lucy just as dinner was over. It bore the post-mark “Cagliari,” and was in her brother's hand; and the old man, with considerate kindness, told her to go to her room and read it. “No, my dear child,” said he, as she arose to leave the room; “no! I shall not be lonely,--where there is memory there are troops of friends. Come back and tell me your news when you have read your letter.”