ng there. Now I
imagined the old man seated, silent and motionless, beside the bed where
his daughter, overcome with weakness and exhaustion, still slept, her
pale face scarce coloured by a pinkish flush that marked the last trace
of feverish excitement; now I thought of her as if still seated in
her own drawing-room, at the little window that faced seaward, looking
perhaps upon the very spot that marked our last night's adventure, and,
mayhap, blushing at the memory.

As I came near the park I turned from the regular approach to a small
path, which, opening by a wicket, led to a little flower-garden beside
the drawing-room. I had not walked many paces when the sound of some one
sobbing caught my ear. I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear
the low broken voice of grief quite near me. My mind was in that excited
state when every breeze that rustled, every leaf that stirred, thrilled
through my heart; the same dread of something, I knew not what, that
agitated me as I awoke came fresh upon me, and a cold tremor crept over
me. The next moment I sprang forward, and as I turned the angle of the
walk beheld--with what relief of heart!--that the cries proceeded from
a little child, who, seated in the grass, was weeping bitterly. It was
a boy of scarce five years old that Louisa used to employ about the
garden--rather to amuse the little fellow, to whom she had taken a
liking, than for the sake of services which at the best were scarcely
harmless.

'Well, Billy,' said I, 'what has happened to you, my boy? Have you
fallen and hurt yourself?'

'Na,' was the only reply; and sinking his head between his knees, he
sobbed more bitterly than ever.

'Has Miss Loo been angry with you, then?'

'Na, na,' was the only answer, as he poured forth a flood of tears.

'Come, come, my little man, what is it? Tell me, and perhaps we can set
it all to rights.'

'Gone! gone away for ever!' cried the child, as a burst of pent-up agony
broke from him; and he cried as though his very heart would break.

Again the terrible foreboding crossed my mind, and without waiting to
ask another question I rushed forward, cleared the little fence of the
flower-garden at a spring and stood within a few yards of the window.
It lay open as usual; the large china vase of moss-roses that she
had plucked the evening before stood on the little table beside it.
I stopped for an instant to breathe; the beating of my heart was so
painful that I pressed my