s evening, if they get
anxious, you can only quiet them by saying you know all and that it is of
no use to fret about me. You will set it all right and not allow them to
grieve."

As they passed a Jacobite chapel that stood open, she begged Eudoxia to
wait for her and fell on her knees before the crucifix. In a few minutes
she came out again, bright and invigorated and, as they passed the last
houses in the town, she exclaimed:

"Is it not wicked, Eudoxia? I am leaving those I love dearly, very
dearly, and yet I feel as glad as a bird escaping from its cage. Good
Heaven! Only to think of the ride by night through the desert and over
the hills, a swift beast under me, and over my head no ceiling but the
blue sky and countless stars! Onward and still onward to a glorious end,
left entirely to myself and entrusted with an important task like a
grownup person! Is it not splendid? And by God's help--and if I find the
governor and succeed in touching his heart. . . . Now, confess, Eudoxia,
can there be a happier girl in the whole wide world?"

They found the Masdakite at Nesptah's inn with some capital dromedaries
and the necessary drivers and attendants. The Greek governess gave her
pupil much good advice, and added her "maternal" blessing with her whole
heart. Rustem lifted the child on to the dromedary, carefully settling
her in the saddle, and the little caravan set out. Mary waved repeated
adieux to her old governess and newly-found friend, and Eudoxia was still
gazing after her long after she had vanished in the darkness.

Then she made her way home, at first weeping silently with bowed head,
but afterwards tearless, upright, and with a confident step. She was in
unusually good spirits, her heart beat higher than it had done for years;
she felt uplifted by the sense of relief from a burthensome duty, and of
freedom to act independently on the dictates of her own intelligence. She
would assert herself, she would show the others that she had acted
rightly; and when at supper-time Mary was missing, and had not returned
even at bed-time, there was much to do to soothe and comfort them, and
much misconstruction to endure; but she took it all patiently, and it was
a consolation to her to bear such annoyance for her little favorite.

Next morning, when she had delivered Mary's letter to Dame Joanna, her
love and endurance were put to still severer proof; indeed, the
meek-tempered widow allowed herself to be carried away to