Constance had begun to wonder what would be done, when she was told that a good-natured pair of English travellers, like herself bound to school terms, would escort her safely to London and see her into the train for Colbeam, just in time for the High School term. 'This will be the best way,' said her aunt, kissing her. 'You have been a dear good girl, Conny, and a great pleasure and comfort to us both.' 'Oh, auntie, I have not done anything, Mrs. Bury has done it all.' 'Mrs. Bury is most kind, unspeakably kind, but, my dear dear girl, your companionship has been so much to your dear uncle that I have been most thankful to you. Always recollect, dearest Conny, you can be more comfort to your uncle than anybody else, whatever may come. You _will_ always be a good girl and keep up your tone, and make him your great consideration--after higher things; promise me.' 'Oh yes, indeed, auntie dear,' said the girl, somewhat frightened and bewildered as the last kisses and good-byes were exchanged. Since the travellers were to start very early the next morning on their mules for Botzen, whither Mrs. Bury meant to accompany them in order to make some purchases, Lord Northmoor went with the party to the limits of his walking powers, and on the slope of the Alp, amid the fir-woods, took his leave, Mrs. Bury telling him cheerfully that she should return the next day, while he said that he could not thank her enough. He bade farewell to his niece, telling her that he hoped she would by and by be spending her holidays at Northmoor if all went well. Constance had begun to grow alarmed, and watched for an opportunity of imploring Mrs. Bury to tell her whether Aunt Mary were really very ill. Mrs. Bury laughed, and confided to her a secret, which made her at once glad, alarmed, and important. 'Oh, and is no one to know?' said little Constance, with rosy cheeks. 'Not till leave is given,' said Mrs. Bury. 'You see there is still so much risk of things going wrong, that they both wish nothing to be said at present. I thought they had spoken to you.' 'Oh no. But--but--' and Constance could not go on, as her eyes filled with tears. 'Is there special cause for anxiety, you mean, my dear? Hardly for _her_, though it was unlucky that she was as unknowing as you, and I don't see how she is to be taken over these roads into a more civilised place. But I shall stay on and see them through with it, and I daresay we shall do very well. I am used enough to looking after my own daughters, and nobody particularly wants me at home.' 'That's what Aunt Mary meant by saying you were _so_ very good!' 'Well, it would be sheer inhumanity to leave them to themselves, and the mercies of Ratzes, and there seems to be no one else that could come.' 'I'm glad I know!' said Constance, with a long breath. 'Only what shall I do if any one asks me about her?'