I bowed my head before her, And stood trembling in the light; She dropped the heavy curtain, And the house was full of night. I then sought my friend’s chambers. ‘I was not aware you knew the Osbornes,’ I said. ‘I wonder you never told me, seeing Charley and you were such friends.’ ‘I never saw one of them till last night. My sister and she knew each other some time ago, and have met again of late. What a lovely creature she is! But what became of you last night? You must have left before any one else.’ ‘I didn’t feel well.’ ‘You don’t look the thing.’ ‘I confess meeting Miss Osborne rather upset me.’ ‘It had the same effect on her. She was quite ill, my sister said, this morning. No wonder! Poor Charley! I always had a painful feeling that he would come to grief somehow.’ ‘Let’s hope he’s come to something else by this time, Marston,’ I said. ‘Amen,’ he returned. ‘Is her father or mother with her?’ ‘No. They are to fetch her away--next week, I think it is.’ I had now no fear of my communication falling into other hands, and therefore sent the song by post, with a note, in which I begged her to let me know if I had done anything to offend her. Next morning I received the following reply: ‘No, Wilfrid--for Charley’s sake, I must call you by your name--you have done nothing to offend me. Thank you for the song. I did not want you to send it, but I will keep it. You must not write to me again. Do not forget what we used to write about. God’s ways are not ours. Your friend, Mary Osborne.’ I rose and went out, not knowing whither. Half-stunned, I roamed the streets. I ate nothing that day, and when towards night I found myself near my chambers, I walked in as I had come out, having no intent, no future. I felt very sick, and threw myself on my bed. There I passed the night, half in sleep, half in helpless prostration. When I look back, it seems as if some spiritual narcotic must have been given me, else how should the terrible time have passed and left me alive? When I came to myself, I found I was ill, and I longed to hide my head in the nest of my childhood. I had always looked on the Moat as my refuge at the last; now it seemed the only desirable thing--a lonely nook, in which to lie down and end the dream there begun--either, as it now seemed, in an eternal sleep, or the inburst of a dreary light. After the last refuge it could afford me it must pass from my hold; but I was yet able to determine whither. I rose and went to Marston. ‘Marston,’ I said, ‘I want to make my will.’ ‘All right!’ he returned; ‘but you look as if you meant to register it as well. You’ve got a feverish cold; I see it in your eyes. Come along. I’ll go home with you, and fetch a friend of mine, who will give you something to do you good.’ ‘I can’t rest till I have made my will,’ I persisted. ‘Well, there’s no harm in that,’ he rejoined. ‘It won’t take long, I dare say.’