a seated
herself in all the accustomed chairs. On the sofa, just in the spot
to which Belton had thrown it, she found the key of the cellar.
She took it up in her hand, thinking that she would give it to the
servant; but again she put it back upon the sofa. It was his key, and
he had left it there, and if ever there came an occasion she would
remind him where he had put it. Then they went out to the cow, who
was at her ease in a little home paddock.

"Dear Bessy," said Clara. "See how well she knows me." But I think
the tame little beast would have known any one else as well who
had gone up to her as Clara did, with food in her hand. "She is
quite as sacred as any cow that ever was worshipped among the
cow-worshippers," said Mrs. Askerton. "I suppose they milk her and
sell the butter, but otherwise she is not regarded as an ordinary cow
at all." "Poor Bessy," said Clara. "I wish she had never come here.
What is to be done with her?" "Done with her! She'll stay here till
she dies a natural death, and then a romantic pair of mourners will
follow her to her grave, mixing their sympathetic tears comfortably
as they talk of the old days; and in future years, Bessy will grow to
be a divinity of the past, never to be mentioned without tenderest
reminiscences. I have not the slightest difficulty in prophesying as
to Bessy's future life and posthumous honours." They roamed about
the place the whole morning, through the garden and round the farm
buildings, and in and out of the house; and at every turn something
was said about Will Belton. But Clara would not go up to the rocks,
although Mrs. Askerton more than once attempted to turn in that
direction. He had said that he never would go there again except
under certain circumstances. She knew that those circumstances would
never come to pass; but yet neither would she go there. She would
never go there till her cousin was married. Then, if in those days
she should ever be present at Belton Castle, she would creep up to
the spot all alone, and allow herself to think of the old days.

On the following morning there came to her a letter bearing the
Downham post-mark,--but at the first glance she knew that it was not
from her cousin Will. Will wrote with a bold round hand, that was
extremely plain and caligraphic when he allowed himself time for the
work in hand, as he did with the commencement of his epistles, but
which would become confused and altogether anti-caligraphic when he