s letter in his niece's hand, and said kindly, "Why not
have gone to see your sister before? I should not have been angry. Go,
my child, as soon as you like. To-morrow is Sunday,--no travelling that
day; but the next, the carriage shall be at your order."

Lucretia hesitated a moment. To leave Dalibard in sole possession of the
field, even for a few days, was a thought of alarm; but what evil could
he do in that time? And her pulse beat quickly: Mainwaring could come
to Southampton; she should see him again, after more than six weeks'
absence! She had so much to relate and to hear; she fancied his last
letter had been colder and shorter; she yearned to hear him say, with
his own lips, that he loved her still. This idea banished or prevailed
over all others. She thanked her uncle cheerfully and gayly, and the
journey was settled.

"Be at watch early on Monday," said Olivier to his son.

Monday came; the baronet had ordered the carriage to be at the door
at ten. A little before eight, Lucretia stole out, and took her way to
Guy's Oak. Gabriel had placed himself in readiness; he had climbed a
tree at the bottom of the park (near the place where hitherto he had
lost sight of her); she passed under it,--on through a dark grove of
pollard oaks. When she was at a sufficient distance, the boy dropped
from his perch; with the stealth of an Indian he crept on her trace,
following from tree to tree, always sheltered, always watchful. He saw
her pause at the dell and look round; she descended into the hollow;
he slunk through the fern; he gained the marge of the dell, and looked
down,--she was lost to his sight. At length, to his surprise, he saw the
gleam of her robe emerge from the hollow of a tree,--her head stooped
as she came through the aperture; he had time to shrink back amongst the
fern; she passed on hurriedly, the same way she had taken, back to the
house; then into the dell crept the boy. Guy's Oak, vast and venerable,
with gnarled green boughs below, and sere branches above, that told that
its day of fall was decreed at last, rose high from the abyss of
the hollow, high and far-seen amidst the trees that stood on the
vantage-ground above,--even as a great name soars the loftier when it
springs from the grave. A dark and irregular fissure gave entrance
to the heart of the oak. The boy glided in and looked round; he saw
nothing, yet something there must be. The rays of the early sun did not
penetrate into the hollow, i