to suspect that her
conversation with Mrs. Vane had been partially if not altogether
overheard. But this Enid resolved not to seem to know.

"Parker," she said quietly, "I am thinking of going to London. Will you
come with me?"

"Yes, miss, that I will--to the end of the world if you like!" was the
unexpectedly fervent response.

But Enid showed no surprise.

"Can you tell me about the trains? What is the earliest?"

"There's one at six, miss; but you wouldn't start so early as that,
would you?"

"The sooner the better, I think. I will dress now, and call you
presently to pack my bag. The boxes can be sent afterwards."

"Yes, miss."

"And, Parker, if you come with me, you must remember that you are
quitting Mrs. Vane's service. She will never take you back if you leave
her now."

"I wouldn't come back--not if she paid me double!" cried Parker, honest
tears starting to her beady eyes. "I don't care what she does; but I'll
never work for her again--not after what I have heard and seen!"

"You must not speak either to me or any one else about what you have
heard or seen," said Enid gravely, "particularly in the house to which
we are going. Will you remember that?"

"Oh, yes, miss--I'll not say a single word! And you have settled where
to go, miss, if I may make so bold as to ask?"

"I am going to my aunt--Miss Vane," said Enid briefly; and Parker
retired, not daring to ask any more questions, being a little overawed
by the growth of some new quality in the girl's nature--some novel
development of strength and character which imposed silence on her
companion in this self-enforced exile.

The dawn was breaking when Enid began to make her preparations for
departure. The faint yellow light of day stole into the room when she
drew back the window-curtains and stood looking--perhaps for the last
time, she thought--upon the flower-gardens and the lawn, upon the sheet
of water in the distance, the beech woods, and the distant hills--spots
that she had known from childhood, and which were dearer to her than any
new scenes could ever be. And yet she did not falter in her purpose.
Even to herself she did not seem the same gentle submissive maiden that
she had hitherto been considered. Some new strength had passed into her
veins; she was eager to act as became the woman who was one day to be
the wife of Maurice Evandale.

She had one task to perform that was very hard to her. She could not go
without writing a farew