“Let me press you,” said the stranger, “to come into the hotel; you require both rest and refreshment--and I entreat and implore you, for the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an hour's conversation.” “I have reconsidered our position,” she replied. “Alley will fetch in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and driver--she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future embarrassment and misunderstanding--Alley, however, must accompany us, and be present in the room. But then,” she added, starting, “is it proper?--is it delicate?--no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might compromise me with the world. Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command you. I ask it as a proof of your love. We will, I trust, have other opportunities. Let us trust, too, to time--let us trust to God--but I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my mother's daughter.” “Well,” replied the stranger, “I shall obey you as a proof of my love for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?--will you not give me your address?” “No,” she returned; “and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever be happy, not to attempt to trace me. I ask this from you as a man of honor. Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we travelled in the same coach. The accident may be misinterpreted. My father may seek an explanation from you--he may ask if you know where I am. Should I have placed the knowledge of my retreat in your possession, you know that, as a man of honor, you could not tell him a falsehood. Goodby,” she added, “we may meet in better times, but I much fear that our destinies will be separated forever--Come, Alley.” Her voice softened as she uttered the last words, and the stranger felt the influence of her ascendency over him too strongly to hesitate in manifesting this proof of his obedience to her wishes. CHAPTER XIV. Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong Scent --Miss Gourlay takes Refuge with an Old Friend. Little did Lucy dream that the fact of their discovery as fellow-travellers would so soon reach her father's ears, and that the provision against that event, and the inferences which calumny might draw from it, as suggested by her prudence and good sense, should render her advice to the stranger so absolutely necessary.