I went to Chantry two days later, and was disappointed to find that the daughter of the house had not returned, though indeed after parting with her I had been definitely of the opinion that she was much more likely to go to bed and be ill. Her mother however had not heard that she was ill, and my inquiry about the young lady was of course full of circumspection. It was a little difficult, for I had to talk about her, Helen being particularly delighted that we had already made acquaintance. No day had been fixed for her return, but it came over my friend that she oughtn't to be absent during too much of my visit. She was the best thing they had to show--she was the flower and the charm of the place. It had other charms as well--it was a sleepy, silvery old home, exquisitely grey and exquisitely green; a house where you could have confidence in your leisure: it would be as genuine as the butter and the claret. The very look of the pleasant, prosaic drawing-room suggested long mornings of fancy work, of Berlin wool and premeditated patterns, new stitches and mild pauses. My good Helen was always in the middle of something eternal, of which the past and the future were rolled up in oilcloth and tissue paper, and the intensest moments of conversation were when it was spread out for pensive opinions. These used to drop sometimes even from Christopher Chantry when he straddled vaguely in with muddy leggings and the raw materials of a joke. He had a mind like a large, full milk-pan, and his wit was as thick as cream. One evening I came down to dinner a little early and, to my surprise, found my troubled maiden in possession of the drawing-room. She was evidently troubled still, and had been waiting there in the hope of seeing me alone. We were too quickly interrupted by her parents, however, and I had no conversation with her till I sat down to the piano after dinner and beckoned to her to come and stand by it. Her father had gone off to smoke; her mother dozed by one of the crackling little fires of the summer's end. "Why didn't you come home the day you told me you meant to?" She fixed her eyes on my hands. "I couldn't, I couldn't!" "You look to me as if you were very ill." "I am," the girl said simply. "You ought to see some one. Something ought to be done." She shook her head with quiet despair. "It would be no use--no one would know." "What do you mean--would know?" "No one would understand." "You ought to make them!" "Never--never!" she repeated. "Never!" "I confess _I_ don't," I replied, with a kind of angry renunciation. I played louder, with the passion of my uneasiness and the aggravation of my responsibility. "No, you don't indeed," said Louisa Chantry. I had only to accept this disadvantage, and after a moment I went on: "What became of Mr. Brandon?" "I don't know." "Did he go away?" "That same evening." "Which same evening?" "The day you were there. I never saw him again."