"It might take no prophet to do that, Miss Cameron," quoth I, with the fatherly manner which two-score years may show toward one. "If I may read your life, I would venture to say that you were destined to fulfil the lot of women--to make some good man happy, and to shed around, in some wider circle, the pleasure which your society has given me since first I knew you." "I will never marry," said she, with a sharp decision, which surprised and somewhat amused me. "Not marry--and why?" A strange look passed over her sensitive features, and she plucked nervously at the grass on the bank beside her. "I dare not," said she in a voice that quivered with emotion. "Dare not?" "It is not for me. I have other things to do. That path of which I spoke is one which I must tread alone." "But this is morbid," said I. "Why should your lot, Miss Cameron, be separated from that of my own sisters, or the thousand other young ladies whom every season brings out into the world? But perhaps it is that you have a fear and distrust of mankind. Marriage brings a risk as well as a happiness." "The risk would be with the man who married me," she cried. And then in an instant, as though she had said too much, she sprang to her feet and drew her mantle round her. "The night air is chill, Mr. Upperton," said she, and so swept swiftly away, leaving me to muse over the strange words which had fallen from her lips. Clearly, it was time that I should go. I set my teeth and vowed that another day should not have passed before I should have snapped this newly formed tie and sought the lonely retreat which awaited me upon the moors. Breakfast was hardly over in the morning before a peasant dragged up to the door the rude hand-cart which was to convey my few personal belongings to my new dwelling. My fellow-lodger had kept her room; and, steeled as my mind was against her influence, I was yet conscious of a little throb of disappointment that she should allow me to depart without a word of farewell. My hand-cart with its load of books had already started, and I, having shaken hands with Mrs. Adams, was about to follow it, when there was a quick scurry of feet on the stair, and there she was beside me all panting with her own haste. "Then you go--you really go?" said she. "My studies call me." "And to Gaster Fell?" she asked. "Yes; to the cottage which I have built there." "And you will live alone there?" "With my hundred companions who lie in that cart." "Ah, books!" she cried, with a pretty shrug of her graceful shoulders. "But you will make me a promise?" "What is it?" I asked, in surprise. "It is a small thing. You will not refuse me?" "You have but to ask it." She bent forward her beautiful face with an expression of the most intense earnestness. "You will bolt your door at night?" said she; and was gone ere I could say a word in answer to her extraordinary request.