uld take no notice of Mr. Sax. Later, when
the dinner-party was over, and we were retiring for the night, he still
hovered about, and ended in offering me a bedroom candle. I immediately
handed it to Miss Melbury. Really a most enjoyable evening!

VI.

THE next morning we were startled by an extraordinary proceeding on the
part of one of the guests. Mr. Sax had left Carsham Hall by the first
train--nobody knew why.

Nature has laid--so, at least, philosophers say--some heavy burdens
upon women. Do those learned persons include in their list the burden
of hysterics? If so, I cordially agree with them. It is hardly worth
speaking of in my case--a constitutional outbreak in the solitude of
my own room, treated with eau-de-cologne and water, and quite forgotten
afterward in the absorbing employment of education. My favorite pupil,
Freddy, had been up earlier than the rest of us--breathing the morning
air in the fruit-garden. He had seen Mr. Sax and had asked him when he
was coming back again. And Mr. Sax had said, "I shall be back again next
month." (Dear little Freddy!)

In the meanwhile we, in the schoolroom, had the prospect before us of a
dull time in an empty house. The remaining guests were to go away at the
end of the week, their hostess being engaged to pay a visit to some old
friends in Scotland.

During the next three or four days, though I was often alone with Mrs.
Fosdyke, she never said one word on the subject of Mr. Sax. Once or
twice I caught her looking at me with that unendurably significant smile
of hers. Miss Melbury was equally unpleasant in another way. When
we accidentally met on the stairs, her black eyes shot at me passing
glances of hatred and scorn. Did these two ladies presume to think--?

No; I abstained from completing that inquiry at the time, and I abstain
from completing it here.

The end of the week came, and I and the children were left alone at
Carsham Hall.

I took advantage of the leisure hours at my disposal to write to Sir
Gervase; respectfully inquiring after his health, and informing him
that I had been again most fortunate in my engagement as a governess. By
return of post an answer arrived. I eagerly opened it. The first lines
informed me of Sir Gervase Damian's death.

The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at my little enameled cross.
It is not for me to say what I felt. Think of all that I owed to him;
and remember how lonely my lot was in the world. I gave the chi