"You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,"
said the consul, "if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed
your mind."

"I have not changed my mind," said Miss Desborough quietly, "and my
baggage is already packed." After a pause, she said thoughtfully, "I've
been wondering"--

"What?" said the consul eagerly.

"I've been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect,
where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part
of their own lives and experience--if, even when they understand another
dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks
it?"

"Apropos of"--asked the consul.

"These people I've just left! I don't think I quite felt with them, and
I guess they didn't feel with me."

"But," said the consul laughingly, "you know that we Americans speak
with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to
it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale--or shall I say Lord
Algernon?--would not only understand that American word 'guess' as you
mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you."

Miss Desborough's eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at
her companion and said, "I GUESS NOT."

As the "tea" party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to
accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station. But here he was
startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered
round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box.
He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss
Desborough's side.

"Really," he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, "I ought
not to let you go. The omens are most disastrous! You came here to a
death; you are going away with a funeral!"

"Then it's high time I took myself off!" said the lady lightly.

"Unless, like the ghostly monk, you came here on a mission, and have
fulfilled it."

"Perhaps I have. Good-by!"

*****

In spite of the bright and characteristic letter which Miss Desborough
left for her host,--a letter which mingled her peculiar shrewd sense
with her humorous extravagance of expression,--the consul spent a
somewhat uneasy evening under the fire of questions that assailed him
in reference to the fair deserter. But he kept loyal faith with her,
adhering even to the letter of her instructions, and only once was
goaded into more active mendacity. The conversation had turned upo