of London. Where the shadow of the great church fell,
there, at the month's end, I should find her, or the trace of her. In
London once more, and nowhere else, I was destined to see the woman I
loved, in the living body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the
ghostly presence.

Who could interpret the mysterious sympathies that still united us, in
defiance of distance, in defiance of time? Who could predict to what end
our lives were tending in the years that were to come?

Those questions were still present to my thoughts; my eyes were still
fixed on the mysterious writing--when I became instinctively aware of
the strange silence in the room. Instantly the lost remembrance of
Miss Dunross came back to me. Stung by my own sense of self-reproach, I
turned with a start, and looked toward her chair by the window.

The chair was empty. I was alone in the room.

Why had she left me secretly, without a word of farewell? Because she
was suffering, in mind or body? Or because she resented, naturally
resented, my neglect of her?

The bare suspicion that I had given her pain was intolerable to me. I
rang my bell, to make inquiries.

The bell was answered, not, as usual, by the silent servant Peter, but
by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatly dressed, whom I had
once or twice met on the way to and from my room, and of whose exact
position in the house I was still ignorant.

"Do you wish to see Peter?" she asked.

"No. I wish to know where Miss Dunross is."

"Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sent me with this letter."

I took the letter, feeling some surprise and uneasiness. It was the
first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in that formal way. I
tried to gain further information by questioning her messenger.

"Are you Miss Dunross's maid?" I asked.

"I have served Miss Dunross for many years," was the answer, spoken very
ungraciously.

"Do you think she would receive me if I sent you with a message to her?"

"I can't say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do well to read the
letter."

We looked at each other. The woman's preconceived impression of me
was evidently an unfavorable one. Had I indeed pained or offended Miss
Dunross? And had the servant--perhaps the faithful servant who loved
her--discovered and resented it? The woman frowned as she looked at me.
It would be a mere waste of words to persist in questioning her. I let
her go.

Left by myself again, I read the letter. It