one to her room.
She will be better to-morrow.'

"I shook my head. Could I believe that grief for the dead, and not
sorrow for the conduct of the living, moved her thus, I should be
happy. Then I could offer consolation and sympathy; but now, if I saw
her, what could I say? Pity, sorrow for her grief, would be but idle
words, which she would spurn with contempt,--and she would be right.
There is but one thing left for me,--I must go from Ashcroft; then,
perhaps, she and Thornton--But no, it cannot be; so wide asunder, they
cannot come together again. And do I wish it? Is not his love as much
mine now as it ever was hers? Ah, how some words once spoken cannot be
forgotten! Before me now is the little picture of Hagar, which Eleanor
had framed and hung in the library. Did she place it before my eyes as
a warning to me? In Hagar's fate I see my own; for even now I hear
Eleanor asking if the passion of a few hours is to thrust aside the
love of long years. The bondmaid will go ere she is driven out. But
Thornton--I cannot, will not, see him again. He has written to me
to-day, saying that he cannot come here, and asking me to meet him at
the well to-morrow. By that time I shall be far on my way to Madge. He
will wait for me, and I shall not come. How can I leave him thus? He
will believe me heartless and cruel. I grieve even now for his pain and
grief. He will think that I did not love, but only sported with him.
How dearly I love him words cannot tell; and I go that his way may be
smoother, and that in my absence he may find--peace at last. A little
dried flower lies on the page that I turned. It is one of those that
grew in the well, that I wore on my bosom one day, that he might see
and know it, and chide me for having been there again. His chiding was
sweeter to me than others' praise. I will not be so unjust to myself. I
will not go without one word. I jestingly told him once I would leave a
token for him on the stone in the well when I went away from Ashcroft.
I will put my journal there. He will see the box and remember it. He
will learn that I have gone, and will know that I love, but that I
leave and renounce him."

* * * * *

The remaining pages of the book were blank. Elizabeth Purcill's journal
was ended. Bradford was busy with conjectures. Why had not Thornton
found and kept the journal intended for him? Had it fallen at once to
the bottom of the well, and lain there for years,