t touched
her with a strange reproach, like a bar of sweet music.

But little Lily was spirited; and if _he_, so early a friend, could go
away without bidding good-bye, why he should not suppose _she_ cared.

'Break our hearts? Not at all, perhaps; but of course I--the parson's
daughter--I should, and old Moore, the barber, and Pat Moran, the
hackney coachman, and Mrs. Irons your fat landlady, you've been so very
good to all of us, you know.'

'Well,' he interrupted, 'I've left my white surtout to Moran: a hat, let
me see, and a pair of buckles to Moore; and my glass and china to dear
Mrs. Irons.'

'Hat--buckles--surtout--glass--china--gone! Then it seems to me your
earthly possessions are pretty nearly disposed of, and your worldly
cares at an end.'

'Yes; very nearly, but not quite,' he laughed. 'I have one treasure
left--my poor monkey; he's a wonderful fellow--he has travelled half
over the world, and is a perfect fine gentleman--and my true comrade
until now. Do you think Dr. Walsingham, of his charity, would give the
poor fellow free quarters at the Elms?'

She was going to make answer with a jest, satirically; but her mood
changed quickly. It was, she thought, saucy of Captain Devereux to fancy
that she should care to have his pet; and she answered a little
gravely--

'I can't say indeed; had you cared to see him, you might have asked him;
but, indeed, Captain Devereux, I believe you're jesting.'

'Faith! Madam, I believe I am; or, it does not much matter--dreaming
perhaps. There's our bugle!' And the sweet sounds quivered and soared
through the pleasant air. 'How far away it sounds already; ours are
sweet bugles--the sweetest bugles to my ear in the wide world. Yes,
dreaming. I said I had but one treasure left,' he continued, with a
fierce sort of tenderness that was peculiar to him: 'and I did not mean
to tell you, but I will. Look at that, Miss Lily, 'tis the little rose
you left on your harpsichord this morning. I stole it: 'tis mine; and
Richard Devereux would die rather than lose it to another.'

So then, after all, he had been at the Elms; and she had wronged him.

'Yes, dreaming,' he continued, in his old manner; 'and 'tis time I were
awake, awake and on the march.'

'You are then really going?' she said, so that no one would have guessed
how strangely she felt at that moment.

'Yes, really going,' he said, quite in his own way; 'Over the hills and
far away; and so, I know, you'll first wis