"Come with me," I said, getting up quickly; and, putting on in a moment my seal-skin jacket and my hat, without another thought or word, much to Rebecca's amazement, I sallied out into the still night air. Turning the corner of the old building, at the end of the court-yard, I found myself treading with rapid steps the crisp grass, under a dazzling moon, and before me the view of the distant fells, throwing their snowy speaks high into the air, with the solemn darkness of the lake, and its silvery gleams below, and the shadowy gorge and great lime-trees in the foreground. Down the gentle slope I walked swiftly, leaving Rebecca Torkill a long way behind. I was now under the towering lime-trees. I paused: with a throbbing heart I held my breath. I heard hollow steps coming up on the other side of the file of gigantic stems. I passed between, and saw Mr. Carmel walking slowly towards me. In a moment he was close to me, and took my hand in his old kindly way. "This is very kind; how can I thank you, Miss Ware? I had hardly hoped to be allowed to call at the house; I am going a long journey, and have not been quite so well as I used to be, and I thought that if I lost this opportunity, in this uncertain world, I might never see my pupil again. I could hardly bear that, without just saying good-bye." "And you are going?" I said, wringing his hand. "Yes, indeed; the ocean will be between us soon, and half the world, and I am not to return." All his kindness rose up before me--his thoughtful goodness, his fidelity--and I felt for a moment on the point of crying. He was muffled in furs, and was looking thin and ill, and in the light of the moon the lines of his handsome face were marked as if carved in ivory. "You and your old tutor have had a great many quarrels, and always made it up again; and now at last we part, I am sure, good friends." "You are going, and you're ill," was all I could say; but I was conscious there was something of that wild tone that real sorrow gives in my voice. "How often I have thought of you, Miss Ethel--how often I shall think of you, be my days many or few. How often!" "I am so sorry, Mr. Carmel--so awfully sorry!" I repeated. I had not unclasped my hand; I was looking in his thin, pale, smiling face with the saddest augury. "I want you to remember me; it is folly, I know, but it is a harmless folly; all human nature shares in it, and"--there was a little tremble, and a momentary interruption--"and your old tutor, the sage who lectured you so wisely, is, after all, no less a fool than the rest. Will you keep this little cross? It belonged to my mother, and is, by permission of my superiors, my own, so you may accept it with a clear conscience." He smiled. "If you wear it, or even let it lie on your table, it will sometimes"--the same momentary interruption occurred again--"it may perhaps remind you of one who took a deep interest in you." It was a beautiful little gold cross, with five brilliants in it.