And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. “A word from me,” Harry thought, “a syllable of explanation, and all this might be changed; but no, I swore it over the dying bed of my benefactor. For the sake of him and his; for the sacred love and kindness of old days; I gave my promise to him, and may kind heaven enable me to keep my vow!” The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily gay and cheerful when he met his friends at the morning meal, his dear mistress, whose clear eyes it seemed no emotion of his could escape, perceived that something troubled him, for she looked anxiously towards him more than once during the breakfast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards she presently followed him, and knocked at his door. As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her at once, for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, pursuant to the resolution which he had come to over-night of making a brisk retreat out of this temptation. She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then leant against it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking at the young man, who was kneeling over his work of packing. “Are you going so soon?” she said. He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so discovered, in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair little hands--it was that which had her marriage ring on--and kissed it. “It is best that it should be so, dearest lady,” he said. “I knew you were going, at breakfast. I--I thought you might stay. What has happened? Why can't you remain longer with us? What has Frank told you--you were talking together late last night?” “I had but three days' leave from Chelsey,” Esmond said, as gayly as he could. “My aunt--she lets me call her aunt--is my mistress now! I owe her my lieutenancy and my laced coat. She has taken me into high favor; and my new General is to dine at Chelsey to-morrow--General Lumley, madam--who has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on whom I must have the honor of waiting. See, here is a letter from the Dowager; the post brought it last night; and I would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing our last merry meeting.” My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that was somewhat contemptuous. “I have no need to read the letter,” says she--(indeed, 'twas as well she did not; for the Chelsey missive, in the poor Dowager's usual French jargon, permitted him a longer holiday than he said. “Je vous donne,” quoth her ladyship, “oui jour, pour vous fatigay parfaictement de vos parens fatigans”)--“I have no need to read the letter,” says she. “What was it Frank told you last night?”