ve it for a word," said I. "I
long to get the good-by over, and to be settled in the Rue Fossette
again. I must go this morning: I must go directly; my trunk is packed
and corded."

It appeared; however, that my going depended upon Graham; he had said
he would accompany, me, and it so fell out that he was engaged all day,
and only returned home at dusk. Then ensued a little combat of words.
Mrs. Bretton and her son pressed me to remain one night more. I could
have cried, so irritated and eager was I to be gone. I longed to leave
them as the criminal on the scaffold longs for the axe to descend: that
is, I wished the pang over. How much I wished it, they could not tell.
On these points, mine was a state of mind out of their experience.

It was dark when Dr. John handed me from the carriage at Madame Beck's
door. The lamp above was lit; it rained a November drizzle, as it had
rained all day: the lamplight gleamed on the wet pavement. Just such a
night was it as that on which, not a year ago, I had first stopped at
this very threshold; just similar was the scene. I remembered the very
shapes of the paving-stones which I had noted with idle eye, while,
with a thick-beating heart, I waited the unclosing of that door at
which I stood--a solitary and a suppliant. On that night, too, I had
briefly met him who now stood with me. Had I ever reminded him of that
rencontre, or explained it? I had not, nor ever felt the inclination to
do so: it was a pleasant thought, laid by in my own mind, and best kept
there.

Graham rung the bell. The door was instantly opened, for it was just
that period of the evening when the half-boarders took their
departure--consequently, Rosine was on the alert.

"Don't come in," said I to him; but he stepped a moment into the
well-lighted vestibule. I had not wished him to see that "the water
stood in my eyes," for his was too kind a nature ever to be needlessly
shown such signs of sorrow. He always wished to heal--to relieve--when,
physician as he was, neither cure nor alleviation were, perhaps, in his
power.

"Keep up your courage, Lucy. Think of my mother and myself as true
friends. We will not forget you."

"Nor will I forget you, Dr. John."

My trunk was now brought in. We had shaken hands; he had turned to go,
but he was not satisfied: he had not done or said enough to content his
generous impulses.

"Lucy,"--stepping after me--"shall you feel very solitary here?"

"At first I shall."