indow; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay,
and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' top; and out comes a walise and a bag;
and I think it was old Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, that
stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.'

'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked.

'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me so
awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say
how much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss,'twill be kep' a
secret, like the shay as you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways,
and secrets; and old Wyat--she does tell stories, don't she?--and she as
ought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she so old. It is
awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.'

Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both
agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose
arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up
at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no
doubt, driven away by the back road.

Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking,
however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearance
of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict
silence, and that even to Wyat--L'Amour I had better continue to call
her--Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however,
that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to
this self-denying resolve.

But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliant
starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery--gossipings, stories,
short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful
scenery of Bartram-Haugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life,
which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger
or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my
interview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated.

My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her
country-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, was
negotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between the courts of
Elverston and of Bartram.

At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak
and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd a