om."

"Thank you heartily, sir; but I go back by the evening train; and, bless
me! how late it is now! I must wish you good-by. I have some commissions
to do for my aunt, and I must buy a new doll for Susey."

"Susey is the name of the little girl with the flower-ball?"

"Yes. I must run off now; I feel quite light at heart seeing you again
and finding that you receive me still so kindly, as if we were equals."

"Ah, Tom, I wish I was your equal,--nay, half as noble as Heaven has
made you!"

Tom laughed incredulously, and went his way.

"This mischievous passion of love," said Kenelm to himself, "has its
good side, it seems, after all. If it was nearly making a wild beast of
that brave fellow,--nay, worse than wild beast, a homicide doomed to
the gibbet,--so, on the other hand, what a refined, delicate, chivalrous
nature of gentleman it has developed out of the stormy elements of its
first madness! Yes, I will go and look at this new-married couple. I
dare say they are already snarling and spitting at each other like cat
and dog. Moleswich is within reach of a walk."

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

TWO days after the interview recorded in the last chapter of the
previous Book, Travers, chancing to call at Kenelm's lodgings, was told
by his servant that Mr. Chillingly had left London, alone, and had given
no orders as to forwarding letters. The servant did not know where he
had gone, or when he would return.

Travers repeated this news incidentally to Cecilia, and she felt
somewhat hurt that he had not written her a line respecting Tom's visit.
She, however, guessed that he had gone to see the Somerses, and would
return to town in a day or so. But weeks passed, the season drew to its
close, and of Kenelm Chillingly she saw or heard nothing: he had
wholly vanished from the London world. He had but written a line to his
servant, ordering him to repair to Exmundham and await him there, and
enclosing him a check to pay outstanding bills.

We must now follow the devious steps of the strange being who has grown
into the hero of this story. He had left his apartment at daybreak long
before his servant was up, with his knapsack, and a small portmanteau,
into which he had thrust--besides such additional articles of dress as
he thought he might possibly require, and which his knapsack could not
contain--a few of his favourite books. Driving with these in a hack-cab
to the Vauxhall station, he directed the portmantea