"The fact," she replied, with a sad smile--"the dire hated fact. We must go, sooner or later; and it is the best for me--for us, I mean--that now it should be sooner. We have remained here longer than we intended, many weeks longer, owing to--to circumstances; and we have been, oh, so happy! Now we must go, and it will be better for us to look the fact in the face, and settle down in Mrs. Swainson's lodgings, and begin our new life." Mr. Creswell's face had grown very white, and his hands were plucking nervously at his chin. Suddenly a light seemed to break in upon him, and he said, "You won't go until you've finished the balance-sheet? Promise me that." "No," said Marian, looking him straight in the face, "I'll finish that--I promise you." "Very good. Now leave me, my dear. This unexpected news has rather upset me. I must be alone for a little. Good-bye! God bless you!" And he bent, and for the first time in his life kissed her forehead. "You--you won't forget your promise?" "You may depend on me," said Marian as she left the room. Outside the door, in the bay-window where she had held her colloquy with Dr. Osborne on the night of Tom's death, were Maude and Gertrude, seated on the ottoman, one at work, the other reading. Neither of them spoke as Marian passed; but she thought she saw a significant look pass between them, and as she descended the stairs she heard them whispering, and caught Maude's words: "I shouldn't wonder if poor Tom was right about her, after all." CHAPTER XVIII. THE RUBICON.