twithstanding your advice, carried it from the house, and it is
now----"

"In my possession," I quietly finished.

I don't think I ever saw her look more astounded, not even when I told
her of Hannah's death. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. "I left it last
night in the old barn that was burned down. I merely meant to hide it
for the present, and could think of no better place in my hurry; for the
barn is said to be haunted--a man hung himself there once--and no one
ever goes there. I--I--you cannot have it!" she cried, "unless----"

"Unless I found and brought it away before the barn was destroyed," I
suggested.

Her face flushed deeper. "Then you followed me?"

"Yes," said I. Then, as I felt my own countenance redden, hastened to
add: "We have been playing strange and unaccustomed parts, you and I.
Some time, when all these dreadful events shall be a mere dream of the
past, we will ask each other's pardon. But never mind all this now. The
box is safe, and I am anxious to hear the rest of your story."

This seemed to compose her, and after a minute she continued:

Mary seemed more like herself after this. And though, on account of Mr.
Leavenworth's return and their subsequent preparations for departure,
I saw but little more of her, what I did see was enough to make me
fear that, with the locking up of the proofs of her marriage, she was
indulging the idea that the marriage itself had become void. But I may
have wronged her in this.

The story of those few weeks is almost finished. On the eve of the day
before she left, Mary came to my house to bid me good-by. She had a
present in her hand the value of which I will not state, as I did not
take it, though she coaxed me with all her prettiest wiles. But she said
something that night that I have never been able to forget. It was this.
I had been speaking of my hope that before two months had elapsed she
would find herself in a position to send for Mr. Clavering, and that
when that day came I should wish to be advised of it; when she suddenly
interrupted me by saying:

"Uncle will never be won upon, as you call it, while he lives. If I was
convinced of it before, I am sure of it now. Nothing but his death will
ever make it possible for me to send for Mr. Clavering." Then, seeing
me look aghast at the long period of separation which this seemed to
betoken, blushed a little and whispered: "The prospect looks somewhat
dubious, doesn't it? But if Mr. Clavering loves me,