a!
I cannot tell you what, because I do not know myself. He went out
this morning in the best of health and spirits, and returned half an
hour ago trembling like a leaf and white as a sheet. He had only
strength enough left to reach a chair in my sitting-room before he
fainted dead away. When he came to himself again he said, 'Tell
your maid to pack at once. There is not a moment to lose. We start
for Paris this evening to catch the next boat leaving Naples for
Australia.' I said, 'But papa!' 'Not a word,' he answered. 'I have
seen somebody this morning whose presence renders it impossible for
us to remain an instant longer in England. Go and pack at once,
unless you wish my death to lie at your door.' After that I could,
of course, say nothing. I have packed and now, in half an hour, we
leave England again. If I could only see you to say good-bye; but
that, too, is impossible. I cannot tell what it all means, but that
it is very serious business that takes us away so suddenly I feel
convinced. My father seems frightened to remain in London a minute
longer than he can help. He even stands at the window as I write,
earnestly scrutinizing everybody who enters the hotel. And now, my
own----"

But what follows, the reiterations of her affection, her vows to be true
to me, etc., etc., could have no possible interest for any one save
lovers.

I sat like one stunned. All enjoyment seemed suddenly to have gone out
of life for me. I could only sit twirling the paper in my hand and
picturing the train flying remorselessly across France, bearing away
from me the girl I loved better than all the world. I went down to the
Park, but the scene there had no longer any interest in my eyes. I went
later on to a theatre, but I found no enjoyment in the piece performed.
London had suddenly become distasteful to me. I felt I must get out of
it; but where could I go? Every place was alike in my present humour.
Then one of the original motives of my journey rose before me, and I
determined to act on the suggestion.

Next morning I accordingly set off for Hampshire to try, if possible, to
find my father's old home. What sort of a place it would turn out to be
I had not the very remotest idea.

Leaving the train at Lyndhurst Road--for the village I was in search of
was situated in the heart of the New Forest--I hired a ramshackle
conveyance from