Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it _apropos des bottes_--always reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince approached the press, or good-natured Milly made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and say:--'This is Doctor Bryerly's address in London. I scratched it with my scissors' point, taking every precaution lest anyone--you, my good friends, included--should surprise me. I have ever since kept this secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank kind faces looked into the press. There--you at last know all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit?' But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave. 'Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,' said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning. ''Twas two o'clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch o' red pepper--leaving the candle a-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up--as I was crossing the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery--what should I hear, but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looks out o' the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, that stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.' 'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked. 'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me so awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say how much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss,'twill be kep' a secret, like the shay as you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways, and secrets; and old Wyat--she does tell stories, don't she?--and she as ought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she so old. It is awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.' Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no doubt, driven away by the back road.