e and little Maud, there; and
I thank you for your good-will; but you must see other things more
reasonably, and I think you will.'

Cousin Monica got up silently and followed him, only throwing up her eyes
and hands as she did so, and I was left alone, wondering and curious more
than ever.

CHAPTER XV

_A WARNING_

I sat still, listening and wondering, and wondering and listening; but
I ought to have known that no sound could reach me where I was from my
father's study. Five minutes passed and they did not return. Ten, fifteen.
I drew near the fire and made myself comfortable in a great arm-chair,
looking on the embers, but not seeing all the scenery and _dramatis
personae_ of my past life or future fortunes, in their shifting glow,
as people in romances usually do; but fanciful castles and caverns in
blood-red and golden glare, suggestive of dreamy fairy-land, salamanders,
sunsets, and palaces of fire-kings, and all this partly shaping and partly
shaped by my fancy, and leading my closing eyes and drowsy senses off into
dream-land. So I nodded and dozed, and sank into a deep slumber, from which
I was roused by the voice of my cousin Monica. On opening my eyes, I saw
nothing but Lady Knollys' face looking steadily into mine, and expanding
into a good-natured laugh as she watched the vacant and lack-lustre stare
with which I returned her gaze.

'Come, dear Maud, it is late; you ought to have been in your bed an hour
ago.'

Up I stood, and so soon as I had begun to hear and see aright, it struck me
that Cousin Monica was more grave and subdued than I had seen her.

'Come, let us light our candles and go together.'

Holding hands, we ascended, I sleepy, she silent; and not a word was spoken
until we reached my room. Mary Quince was in waiting, and tea made.

'Tell her to come back in a few minutes; I wish to say a word to you,' said
Lady Knollys.

The maid accordingly withdrew.

Lady Knollys' eyes followed her till she closed the door behind her.

'I'm going in the morning.'

'So soon!'

'Yes, dear; I could not stay; in fact, I should have gone tonight, but it
was too late, and I leave instead in the morning.'

'I am so sorry--so _very_ sorry,' I exclaimed, in honest disappointment,
and the walls seemed to darken round me, and the monotony of the old
routine loomed more terrible in prospect.

'So am I, dear Maud.'

'But can't you stay a little longer; _won't_ you?'

'No, Maud; I'm vexed wit