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eonora felt guilty because she had been unwittingly absorbed in the gaiety of the opera while Aunt Hannah was in such danger. 'I doubt I munna' tap that again,' Meshach remarked with a short dry plaintive laugh, pointing to the pewter platter on the mantelpiece by means of which he was accustomed to summon his sister when he wanted her. The visitors looked at each other; Leonora's eyes were moist. 'But isn't there anything I can do, uncle?' she demanded. 'I'll see if her's asleep. Sit thee still,' said Meshach, and he crept out of the room, and up the creaking stair. 'Poor old fellow!' Twemlow murmured, glancing at his watch. 'What time is it?' she asked, for the sake of saying something. 'It's no use me staying.' 'Five to eleven. If I run off at once I can catch the last train. Good-night. Tell Mr. Myatt, will you?' She took his hand with a feeling of intimacy. It seemed to her that they had shared many emotions that night. 'I'll let you out,' she suggested, and in the obscurity of the narrow lobby they came into contact and shook hands again; she could not at first find the upper latch of the door. 'I shall be seeing you all soon,' he said in a low voice, on the step. She nodded and closed the door softly. She thought how simple, agreeable, reliable, honest, good-natured, and sympathetic he was. 'Her's sleeping like a babby,' Meshach stated, returning to the parlour. He lighted his pipe, and through the smoke looked at Leonora in her dark magnificent dress. Then John arrived, pompous and elaborately calm; but he had driven Prince to Hillport and back in twenty-five minutes. John listened to the recital of events. 'You're sure there's no danger now?' He could disguise neither his present relief nor his fear for the future. 'Thou'rt all right yet, nephew,' said Meshach with an ironic inflection, as he gazed into the dying fire. 'Her may live another ten year. And I might flit to-morrow. Thou'rt too anxious, my lad. Keep it down.' John, deeply offended, made no reply. 'Why shouldn't I be anxious?' he exclaimed angrily as they drove home. 'Whose fault is it if I am? Does he expect me not to be?' CHAPTER VII THE DEPARTURE As I approach the crisis in Leonora's life, I hesitate, fearing lest by an unfit phrase I should deprive her of your sympathies, and fearing also that this fear may incline me to set down less than the truth about her. She was possessed by a myst
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