king that mistake about
your name in signing the church register. You remember? Was there ever
such stuff? Ah, she's a foolish woman, that wife of mine! But she means
well--a good soul at bottom. She would have traveled all the way here
along with me if I would have let her. I said, 'No; you stop at home,
and look after the house and the parish, and I'll bring the child back.'
You shall have your old bedroom, Valeria, with the white curtains, you
know, looped up with blue! We will return to the Vicarage (if you can
get up in time) by the nine-forty train to-morrow morning."

Return to the Vicarage! How could I do that? How could I hope to gain
what was now the one object of my existence if I buried myself in
a remote north-country village? It was simply impossible for me to
accompany Doctor Starkweather on his return to his own house.

"I thank you, uncle, with all my heart," I said. "But I am afraid I
can't leave London for the present."

"You can't leave London for the present?" he repeated. "What does the
girl mean, Mr. Benjamin?" Benjamin evaded a direct reply.

"She is kindly welcome here, Doctor Starkweather," he said, "as long as
she chooses to stay with me."

"That's no answer," retorted my uncle, in his rough-and-ready way. He
turned to me. "What is there to keep you in London?" he asked. "You used
to hate London. I suppose there is some reason?"

It was only due to my good guardian and friend that I should take him
into my confidence sooner or later. There was no help for it but to
rouse my courage, and tell him frankly what I had it in my mind to do.
The vicar listened in breathless dismay. He turned to Benjamin, with
distress as well as surprise in his face, when I had done.

"God help her!" cried the worthy man. "The poor thing's troubles have
turned her brain!"

"I thought you would disapprove of it, sir," said Benjamin, in his mild
and moderate way. "I confess I disapprove of it myself."

"'Disapprove of it' isn't the word," retorted the vicar. "Don't put it
in that feeble way, if you please. An act of madness--that's what it is,
if she really mean what she says." He turned my way, and looked as
he used to look at the afternoon service when he was catechising an
obstinate child. "You don't mean it," he said, "do you?"

"I am sorry to forfeit your good opinion, uncle," I replied. "But I must
own that I do certainly mean it."

"In plain English," retorted the vicar, "you are conceited enough to