A few hours lie between him and his departure, to be employed in friendly visits to Mrs. Morpher, Dr. Duchesne, M’liss, and her mother. The Mountain Ranch is nearest, and thither Mr. Gray goes first. Mrs. Morpher, over a kneading-trough, with her bare arm whitened with flour, is genuinely grieved at parting with the master, and, in spite of Mr. Gray’s earnest remonstrances, insists upon conducting him into the chill parlor, leaving him there until she shall have attired herself in a manner becoming to “company.” “I don’t want you to go at all—no more I don’t,” says Mrs. Morpher, with all sincerity, as she seats herself finally on the shining horsehair sofa. “The children will miss you. I don’t believe that any one will do for Risty, Kerg, and Clytie what you have done. But I suppose you know best what’s best. Young men like to see the world, and it ain’t expected one so young as you should settle down yet. That’s what I was telling Clytie this morning. That was just the way with my John afore he was married. I suppose you’ll see M’liss and _her_ before you go. They say that she is going to San Francisco soon. Is it so?” Mr. Gray understands the personal pronoun to refer to Mrs. Smith, a title Mrs. Morpher has never granted M’liss’s mother, for whom she entertains an instinctive dislike. He answers in the affirmative, however, with the consciousness of uneasiness under the inquiry; and as the answer does not seem to please Mrs. Morpher, he is constrained to commend M’liss’s manifest improvement under her mother’s care. “Well” says Mrs. Morpher, with a significant sigh, “I hope it’s so; but bless us, where’s Clytie? You mustn’t go without saying ‘good-by’ to her” and Mrs. Morpher starts away in search of her daughter. The dining-room door scarcely closes before the bedroom door opens, and Clytie crosses the parlor softly with something in her hands. “You are going now?” she says hurriedly. “Yes.” “Will you take this?” putting a sealed package into his hand, “and keep it without opening it until”— “Until when, Clytie?” “Until you are married.” Mr. Gray laughs. “Promise me,” repeats Clytie. “But I may expire in the mean time, through sheer curiosity.” “Promise!” says Clytie gravely. “I promise, then.” Mr. Gray receives the package. “Good-by,” says Clytie softly. Clytie’s rosy cheek is very near Mr. Gray. There is nobody by. He is going away. It is the last time. He kisses her just before the door opens again to Mrs. Morpher. Another shake of hands all around, and Mr. Gray passes out of the Mountain Ranch forever. Dr. Duchesne’s office is near at hand; but for some reason, that Mr. Gray cannot entirely explain to himself, he prefers to go to Mrs. Smith’s first. The little cottage which they have taken temporarily is soon reached, and as the young man stands at the door he re-knots the bow of his cravat, and passes his fingers through his curls,—trifles that to Dr. Duchesne or any other critical, middle-aged person might look bad.