When she found herself in the privacy of her own room, she took the letter out of her pocket and read it twice over carefully. Beyond all doubt, he was in earnest. Besides, no man of ordinary feeling plays at such matters. He asked for an immediate reply, and there was every reason for answering him at once. What should she say? What should she say? The position was one of the greatest difficulty. George was gone away. That was extraordinary enough. Even Marie did not know where George had gone. How awkward! No doubt Mr Nevill had gone out and taken George with him, to break to him what he had done, and to hear his opinion. What should she do? It was plain this letter ought to be answered in some way at once. George was out, and there were no means of learning when he would be back. What should she do? It was very awkward and depressing. What should she do?' There was no one she could talk to but Marie. She would go to Marie and tell her of this thing. Marie was now almost her sister, and having had such great experience in the world, no doubt she could tell her exactly what to do. Marie was greatly puzzled by George's absence. She thought it almost careless of him to leave no word when he was going out that he would not be back for breakfast. The people at the place now knew something was going on between them, and leaving in this way aroused remark and drew eyes upon her. When saying good-night last night, he had been most affectionate, had thanked her for that song, and blessed God his sweetheart had a voice that was better than a sermon. She wasn't in the least angry with him. Who could be angry with George? Her George! her master! her lord! What they were to do to-day she did not know. Nothing had been settled yesterday. How she wished George would come back! Breakfast had been so lonely and dreary without him. She had never been in love before. It was infinitely delightful, but it was hard to bear when he was away. Love was peace and rest and security when he was by; but when he was away it was a sick, sad yearning, a growing want. How often at breakfast that morning she felt when the door-handle moved she could see his face through the door. When the door did open and admitted a servant or some stout guest, she had felt first as if she wished that person dead, and then as if she would like to go up to her room and cry. Of course George had an excellent reason for going out and staying away; but what was the use of reason when she wanted to see George? It was all very well saying, 'He has a good reason; he has a good reason.' You might go on saying that with your mind or your lips as long as you liked, but the minute you stopped, your heart called out twice as loud, 'I want George. I want my love.' 'O'Connor, is that you?' 'The same, if it be pleasing to you, Miss Gordon.' 'Why are you so very stately, O'Connor?'