"My love, you are discretion itself; I know you never betray a secret." "If I had one, Capt, _you_ would worm it out of me," she said with a smile and a perceptible pressure on his arm. "Yes, my love, I _should_ worm it out," he replied with intention. Hephzibah took no notice of this remark. "The mist is very damp, and I am very tired, Maurice; I must be going in; my mistress will wonder what has become of me, so good-night." The valet kissed the girl. "Good-bye, my love," he said. "I think you had better have trusted me. Good-bye." "Good-night, or good-bye, if you prefer it, Mr. Capt," replied the lady's maid with dignity. "Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, _till we meet again_." Hephzibah hurried into the house. The valet continued his walk up and down the little terrace; he was immersed in thought, he still smoked his cigar, but unconsciously; he was suddenly roused from his reflections by the fire almost touching his lips. With a curse, he flung the end into the waters, and watched it disappear with a hiss. Then he walked briskly into the house. The next morning Mr. Capt had disappeared. There was nothing wrong with the plate. On the carefully arranged breakfast table lay an envelope directed to Mrs. Haggard; it contained the man's account book, balanced to a farthing; a small sum of money due from him to his mistress, and his keys. "What does he mean by this?" said Lucy to her cousin. Mrs. Haggard made no answer, but turning to Hephzibah, she said coldly, "Where is Capt?" "Please, ma'am, I don't know; he's taken his things with him, and I think he is gone. I hope there is nothing wrong," said the girl, her pale face working with suppressed emotion. Then Mrs. Haggard fainted. CHAPTER II. AT THE PARSONAGE. In King's Warren Parsonage the vicar's wife was seated at her little table. Before her was a handsome service of _real_ Queen Anne plate; the square-looking teapot with its solid ebony handle, and the bowl and jug to match, for in those days they were sugar bowls and not sugar basins. Mrs. Dodd was not alone; she had two visitors, old Mrs. Wurzel and her inseparable companion, Miss Grains. The tea was good and strong, the cream perfection; all three ladies were in the best of temper. As a rule even the most cantankerous women are placable after afternoon tea. No man had ever partaken of Mrs. Dodd's tea in her own peculiar sanctum; that honour was reserved for those of her own sex, her cronies, her fellow-workers. In this little room the village scandals were threshed out, in this room the female scholars of the Sunday school received what Mrs. Dodd was pleased to call a few words of advice and admonition. What the mysterious advice was that Mrs. Dodd imparted, who can tell? One thing is certain, as they left the Vicarage they always wept, all save Jemima Ann Blogg the defiant; she alone had shed no tears.