s hand to Gerard he exclaimed, in a trembling voice, "Best
of friends, I must leave Mowedale."

"I am very sorry," said Gerard; "and when?"

"Now," said Egremont.

"Now!" said Sybil.

"Yes; this instant. My summons is urgent. I ought to have left this
morning. I came here then to bid you farewell," he said looking at
Sybil, "to express to you how deeply I was indebted to you for all your
goodness--how dearly I shall cherish the memory of these happy days--the
happiest I have ever known;" and his voice faltered. "I came also to
leave a kind message for you, my friend, a hope that we might meet again
and soon--but your daughter was absent, and I could not leave Mowedale
without seeing either of you. So I must contrive to get on through the
night."

"Well we lose a very pleasant neighbour," said Gerard; "we shall miss
you, I doubt not, eh, Sybil?"

But Sybil had turned away her head; she was leaning over and seemed to
be caressing Harold and was silent.

How much Egremont would have liked to have offered or invited
correspondence; to have proffered his services when the occasion
permitted; to have said or proposed many things that might have
cherished their acquaintance or friendship; but embarrassed by his
incognito and all its consequent deception, he could do nothing but
tenderly express his regret at parting, and speak vaguely and almost
mysteriously of their soon again meeting. He held out again his hand
to Gerard who shook it heartily: then approaching Sybil, Egremont said,
"you have shewn me a thousand kindnesses, which I cherish," he added
in a lower tone, "above all human circumstances. Would you deign to
let this volume lie upon your table," and he offered Sybil an English
translation of Thomas a Kempis, illustrated by some masterpieces. In its
first page was written "Sybil, from a faithful friend."

"I accept it," said Sybil with a trembling voice and rather pale, "in
remembrance of a friend." She held forth her hand to Egremont, who
retained it for an instant, and then bending very low, pressed it to his
lips. As with an agitated heart, he hastily crossed the threshold of
the cottage, something seemed to hold him back. He turned round. The
bloodhound had seized him by the coat and looked up to him with an
expression of affectionate remonstrance against his departure. Egremont
bent down, caressed Harold and released himself from his grasp.

When Egremont left the cottage, he found the country envelope