“Good-by, my dear and only love. Try to forgive me. And forget me as fast as possible. I shall think of you always, but as of one far above me, meant to make some better fellow happy. I must not see you again, and I must not write to you. It would not be fair or honest. Good-by, dear, again. “Hilary.” Stella gave a little cry of pain. “Where has he gone, Margaret?” she whispered, while the tears started to her eyes. “To London, or to Yorkshire? Can you tell me?” “He didn’t say a word, miss; but he seemed in a great hurry to get off. If I was you I wouldn’t trouble my head about him. Handsome is as handsome does, _I_ say.” “Surely he ought not to be alone. Lord Carthew should go after him!” Stella exclaimed. “I must speak to him!” She made a quick movement toward the door, and then checked herself. It was impossible, she felt, to face Lord Carthew at this moment. She had forgotten until now her half-promise of the morning, but it recurred to her as she realized the difficulty of explaining to the Viscount the knowledge she possessed of Hilary’s movements. She must trust to chance for Lord Carthew to find out that his friend had left the house. Meantime, resentment against her father kept her from going downstairs lest she should meet him. Anxiety on Hilary’s account made her restless. Putting on her hat and cloak, she ran lightly downstairs at about five o’clock, and stealthily out by the front entrance. The wind had freshened, and a little rain was blown into her face. She hurried on beneath the thickly planted trees in the park, urged by she knew not what impulse, until, as she neared the lodge gates, she met coming in her direction a horsey-looking man, whom she at once recognized as the hostler of the inn where Hilary’s Black Bess and Lord Carthew’s chestnut cob were put up. The man recognized her and touched his cap. She stopped him at once. “Are you going to the house?” she asked. “Have you a message for some one? And has anything happened?”