"No, no, Shelfy; I couldn't bear it. You don't suppose I can see people yet after my dear uncle's--" Her voice trembled; her eyes filled with real tears. "Very well, dear," said Mrs Shelf. "I am sorry I mentioned it my pet. Well then, I will be off. You will be sure to give yourself a cosy tea, Annie; and I'll be back, at the latest at seven, if not before." Dan was summoned; the old horse was put to the old gig which had been used so often by the rector, and Mrs Shelf and Dan drove smartly out of the yard. Annie was alone in the house. "I have succeeded," she said to herself. She did not know whether her pain at the thought of all that lay before her and at the final severance of the ties of her entire life was as keen as her pleasure at the thought of escaping from her greatest fears. She knew she had very little time to spare. Mrs Shelf was a quick sort of woman, not at all gossipy, and she would be certainly anxious at the thought of Annie staying behind alone. But the girl, bad as she was, felt that she could not go away for ever without doing one last thing; and a moment later, in her black dress, with her fair hair tumbling loosely about her neck and shoulders--for she had let it down while helping Shelfy in the kitchen--she ran into the garden, and picking a great quantity of large white lilies, pursued her way along a narrow path until she reached a wicket gate which led into the old churchyard. Soon the girl in her black dress, with her fair face and her lovely golden hair, was kneeling by a newly-made grave. She laid the lilies on the grave, pressed her lips, not once, but many times, against the fragrant flowers, and said in a choked, husky, agonised voice: "Good-bye, Uncle Maurice; good-bye for ever and ever. Ask God to tell you everything. Good-bye, Uncle Maurice;" and then she came back to the house. There was now nothing more to be done except to write a letter to Mrs Shelf. "Dear Shelfy," wrote Annie on a piece of black-edged paper, "I have gone away. I sent you to Rashleigh on purpose. You won't ever find me again, for I am going to a part of the world where no one will know me. I shall lead my own life and perhaps be happy. Please forget me, Shelfy, and tell John Saxon to do the same; and when you hear all the wicked, wicked, dreadful stories that you will hear about me, try to believe that--that I am sorry now, and would be different if I could-- but I can't. Try, too, to believe that I will never forget Uncle Maurice nor--nor the old place. Good-bye, Shelfy, darling. Annie."