"Say no more," replied Mr Trevannion. As he said this, I heard footsteps in the passage, and was about to retreat to my own room; but, as the party came without a light, I remained. It was the porter, who knocked at the sitting-room door, and was requested to come in by Mr Trevannion. "If you please, Sir, Mr Elrington is gone out, I believe, and I found this packet directed to you on the table of the inner room, and also this bag of money, which I suppose you forgot to put away before you left." "Very well, Humphrey, leave them on the table." The man did so, and quitted the room, not perceiving me in the dark as he passed through the ante-room. "He has not taken the money," observed Mr Trevannion. "He might have done so, as he ought to be paid for his services." "I presume, my dear father, that his feelings were too much hurt by what passed," said Miss Trevannion. "There are obligations which cannot be repaid with gold." "These, I perceive, are the keys of the safe; I did not think that he would have gone away this night." I now considered it high time to quit the ante-room, where I had been irresistibly detained by the conversation which took place. I hastened to my own chamber, determined that I would leave the house the next morning before any one was stirring. I gained it in the dark, but, having the means of striking a light, I did so, and packed up all my clothes ready for my departure. I had just fastened down my valise, when I perceived a light on the further end of the long corridor which led to my apartment. Thinking it might be Mr Trevannion, and not wishing to see him, I blew out my own light and retreated to a small dressing-room, within my chamber, communicating by a glass door. The light evidently approached, and at last I perceived the party was entering my room, the door of which was wide open. It was Miss Trevannion who entered, and, turning round with her chamber-light in her hand, appeared to survey the apartment with a mournful air. She perceived my valise, and her eyes were fixed upon it for some time; at last she walked up to the dressing-table, and, sitting on the stool before it, leant down her head upon her hands and wept. "Alas!" thought I, "if those tears were but for me; but it is not so-- she has been excited, and her tears have come to her relief." After a time she raised her head from the table, and said, "How unjust have I been--and I shall see him no more!--if I could but beg his pardon, I should be more happy. Poor fellow!--what must he have felt at my harsh bearing. Oh! My father, I could not have believed it. And what did I say?--that I had no feeling for--well, I thought so at the time, but now--I am not quite sure that I was correct, though he--well, it's better that he's gone--but I cannot bear that he should have gone as he has done. How his opinion of me must have changed! That is what vexes me--" and again she bent her head down on the table and wept.