Millicent Hallam's eyes closed as she stood in that garden, clasping her child's hand in hers, and listening to each love-tuned call. The thrush, that; now soft, mellow, and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird's pipe; then again, from overhead, that pleasant little sharp "pink, pink," of the chaffinch, followed by its musical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into glass; while far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the distance, came the lark's song--a song she had not listened to for a dozen years. "For the last time--for the last time, good-bye, dear home, good-bye!" "Mother!" "Did I speak?" said Millicent, starting. "Speak?" cried Julia excitedly. "Oh, mother, dear mother, your words seemed so strange; they almost break my heart." "Hearts do not break, Julie," said Mrs Hallam softly; "they can bear so much, my darling, so much." "But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear old place again." "Did I, my child?" said Mrs Hallam, dreamily, as she gazed wistfully round. "Well, who knows? who knows? Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for change." "And we must go, mother, away--to that place?" "Yes," said Mrs Hallam sternly, and she drew herself up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart against the weakness of her child. It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs Luttrell had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quivering lip. "I can't say a word, my child. I could only beg of you to stay." "And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father," Millicent had said in return with many a tender caress. Then the old people had pleaded that Julia might remain; and there had been another painful scene, and the night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy and sorrow. Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the evening; but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow-stricken hearts in the old home. Then had come the glorious spring morning, and, stealing through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till over all, like a cloud, came Millicent's farewell to the home she would never see again. Prophetic and true--or the false imaginings of a sorrow-charged brain? Who could say? The stay was to be but short, for they returned that night by the coach which passed through, as it had gone on passing since that night when the agonised wife had sat watching for the news from the assize town. "It will be better so," Millicent Hallam had said. "It will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for long. We must finish and away. He is waiting for us now." About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and grave as ever, but with a smile for Julia, as she hurried to meet him, Millicent coming more slowly behind.