and she is ill--is dying," said Juliet, speaking
unconsciously aloud. "This dreadful affair has killed her; and she
wishes to see me. Yes, I will go."

"My child, you know not what you are about to undertake," said the old
man, coming forward. "It may be the death of you."

"Dear papa, I am stronger than you think. I have borne a worse sorrow,"
she added, in a whisper. "Let me go."

"Please yourself, Julee; but I fear it will be too much for you."

Frederic was anxious that Clary should be gratified; and, in spite of
Captain Whitmore's objections, he continued, backed by Juliet, to urge
his request. Reluctantly the old man yielded to their united entreaties.

Before Juliet set out upon her melancholy journey, she visited the sick
chamber of the unconscious Mary Mathews, whom she strongly recommended
to the care of Aunt Dorothy and her own waiting-woman. The latter, who
loved her young mistress very tenderly, and who perhaps was not ignorant
of her attachment to young Hurdlestone, promised to pay every attention
to the poor invalid during her absence. Satisfied with these
arrangements, Juliet kissed her father; and begging him not to be uneasy
on her account, as for his sake she would endeavor to bear up against
the melancholy which oppressed her, she accepted Mr. Wildegrave's escort
to Ashton.

During the journey, she found that Frederic was acquainted with
Anthony's attachment to her; and the frank and generous sympathy that he
expressed for the unhappy young man won from his fair companion her
confidence and friendship. He was the only person whom she had ever met
to whom she could speak of Anthony without reserve, and he behaved to
her like a true friend in the dark hour of doubt and agony.

The night was far advanced when they arrived at Millbank. Clary was
sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be
disturbed.

The room allotted to Miss Whitmore's use was the one which had been
occupied by Anthony. Everything served to remind her of its late tenant.
His books, his papers, his flute, were there. Her own portfolio,
containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the
table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers--wild flowers--which
she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle's park; but what
paper is that attached to the faded nosegay? It is a copy of verses. She
knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads--

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but lo