ve no better impression
behind me. Yes," added she, in a tone of sadness, "I am going away."

"Oh, darling Lizzy,--oh, Daisy, don't say so," broke out so many voices
together.

"Too true! dearest friends," said she, throwing her arms around those
nearest to her. "I only learned it this morning. Madame Godarde came to
my room to say papa had written for me, and would come over to fetch me
in about a fortnight I ought doubtless to be so happy at the prospect of
going home; but I have no mother,--I have not either brother or sister;
and here, amidst you, I have every tie that can attach the heart. When
shall I ever live again amidst such loving hearts?--when shall life be
the happy dream I have felt it here?"

"But think of us, Daisy, forlorn and deserted," cried one, sobbing.

"Yes, Lizzy," broke in another, "imagine the day-by-day disappointments
that will break on us as we discover that this pleasure or that spot
owed its charm to you,--that it was your voice made the air melody, your
accents gave the words their feeling! Fancy us as we find out--as
find out we must--that the affection we bore you bound us into one
sisterhood--"

"Oh," burst Lizzy in, "do let me carry away some of my heart to him who
should have it all, and make not my last moments with you too painful to
bear. Remember, too, that it is but a passing separation; we can and we
will write to each other. I 'll never weary of hearing all about you
and this dear spot. There's not a rosebud opening to the morning air
but will bring some fragrance to my heart; and that dear old window! how
often shall I sit at it in fancy, and look over the fair plain before
us. Bethink you, too, that I am only the first launched into that wide
ocean of life where we are all to meet hereafter."

"And be the dear, dear friends we now are," cried another. And so they
hung upon her neck and kissed her, bathing her soft tresses with their
tears, and indulging in all the rapture of that sorrow no ecstasy of joy
can equal.

CHAPTER XVIII. SOME DOINGS OF MR. DRISCOLL.

"There it is, Bella," said Kellett, as he entered the cottage at
nightfall, and threw a sealed letter on the table. "I hadn't the courage
to open it. A fellow came into the office and said, 'Is one Kellett
here? This is a letter from Mr. Davenport Dunn.' _He_ was Mister, and
_I_ was _one_ Kellett. Wasn't I low enough when I couldn't say a word to
it?--wasn't I down-in the world when I had to bear it in s