The separation was painful, but it was, after all, so different from that other parting which a few weeks before had seemed so near at hand! The last hand-shakes were exchanged; and Alec’s friends stepped on board the tug which was to convey them back to the shore. He saw them land; he saw his father’s tall, bent form, with Margaret at his side, standing motionless at the edge of the quay. He watched them until it was no longer possible to see the signals they made, till their forms were lost in the distance. A few minutes afterwards he begged a fellow-passenger for the loan of a field-glass which was lying beside him, that he might have a nearer look at the land he was leaving. And happening to turn the glass upon the wharf, he saw that Margaret and his father were standing there still. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE FUGITIVE’S RETURN. Before Miss Lindsay left London she accompanied her late cousin’s ward to Victoria, and saw her depart for Brighton. The old lady was by no means sorry that this was the last she was to see of Laura Mowbray. There had been from the first hour of their meeting a natural antipathy between the two women. Miss Lindsay’s ruling idea was that of duty, while Laura’s chief aim in life was to get as much amusement, or, failing that, as much comfort as possible, out of her existence. They had put up with each other because they happened to be members of the same household, and each had too much sense to indulge in quarrelling or recrimination. Naturally they both felt it to be a relief when the connection came to an end. But no sooner were Miss Lindsay and Margaret seated in the carriage which conveyed them back to Claremont Gardens, than the old lady’s conscience began to trouble her. It told her that she had done nothing for the girl who had been for some years in a manner under her care. She had not tried to wean her from her pleasure-loving, selfish habits. She had not tried to sympathize with her, or to make life in Mr. Lindsay’s house, which was often cheerless enough, a whit more pleasant for her. Beyond lending volumes of sermons and religious memoirs to her to read on Sundays, she had not tried to influence the motherless girl for good. Why had she not thought of all this before it was too late? ‘It was with a sigh, therefore, that she turned to Margaret, and said: ‘Poor lassie! I wish she may do weel.’ ‘I think few people are better able to take care of themselves than Miss Mowbray,’ responded Margaret. ‘I think Alec was greatly taken with her some time back,’ said Miss Lindsay, after a pause. ‘She encouraged both him and that wretch, James Semple,’ said Margaret, with more vehemence than was usual with her; ‘and I believe she meant to take the one that turned out to be Uncle James’s heir. She has no principle. I believe she would marry anyone who was rich enough to give her all the comforts of life and take her to plenty of balls and parties.’