rter of an hour she appeared in traveling costume, with
her jewels in a bag, which she carried in her hand. There was a train
for London passing Monk-Rawdon at eight o'clock; and after Justice
Manningham had left, the cook brought in some dinner, which Dora asked
the Rawdons to share with her. It was, perhaps, a necessary but a
painful meal. No one noticed Mostyn. He was enforced to sit still and
watch its progress, which he accompanied with curses it would be a kind
of sacrilege to write down. But no one answered him, and no one noticed
the orders he gave for his own dinner, until Dora rose to leave forever
the house of bondage. Then she said to the cook:

"See that those gentlemanly constables have something good to eat and to
drink, and when they have been served you may give that man"--pointing
to Mostyn--"the dinner of bread and water he has so often prescribed
for me. After my train leaves you are all free to go to your own homes.
Farewell, friends!"

Then Mostyn raved again, and finally tried his old loving terms. "Come
back to me, Dora," he called frantically. "Come back, dearest, sweetest
Dora, I will be your lover forever. I will never say another cross word
to you."

But Dora heard not and saw not. She left the room without a glance at
the man sitting cowering between the officers, and blubbering with shame
and passion and the sense of total loss. In a few minutes he heard the
Rawdon carriage drive to the door. Tyrrel and Ethel assisted Dora into
it, and the party drove at once to the railway station. They were just
able to catch the London train. The butler came up to report all the
trunks safely forwarded, and Dora dropped gold into his hand, and
bade him clear the house of servants as soon as the morning broke.
Fortunately there was no time for last words and promises; the train
began to move, and Tyrrel and Ethel, after watching Dora's white face
glide into the darkness, turned silently away. That depression which
so often follows the lifting of burdens not intended for our shoulders
weighed on their hearts and made speech difficult. Tyrrel was especially
affected by it. A quick feeling of something like sympathy for Mostyn
would not be reasoned away, and he drew Ethel close within his arm, and
gave the coachman an order to drive home as quickly as possible, for
twilight was already becoming night, and under the trees the darkness
felt oppressive.

The little fire on the hearth and their belated dinne