s partly my
fault, and partly your own. I supposed you
expected something to happen, and I thought the
old trick would serve as well as a new one.

"As ever,
E. P."

"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, twisting the note, and frowning at the
window. "Precisely! and so, you were saying, Sophronia--ahem! that is,
you are obliged to leave us?"

"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleep
another night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to the
heart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, and
those--those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly have
made a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but still
it seems my duty _to_ live, and I am convinced that another night here
would be my death."

"I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same time
I am bound to tell you that--a--that the disturbance of which you speak
is of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to--to human agency
altogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we can
wait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, you
say, Margaret. And--but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you the
sequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say-- You have ordered
Willis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks."

Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with an
unexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help Miss
Sophronia with her packing.

An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at the
door, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr.
Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit had
ended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia's
pardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heart
was full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she might
have tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore,
she declared, no malice to any one.

"I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you in
every way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been with
you these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves are
restored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make any
changes, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my