ddenly the door of the dwelling opened, and two persons appeared upon
the sill; one, a man advanced in life, the other, a pale and serious
woman. Each carried a small package and seemed ready for travel. Lenora
was dressed in a simple dark gown and bonnet, her neck covered by a
small square handkerchief. De Vlierbeck was buttoned up to the chin in a
coarse black greatcoat, and wore a threadbare cap whose large visor
nearly masked his features. Although it was evident that the homeless
travellers had literally stripped themselves of all superfluities and
had determined to go forth with the merest necessaries of decency, there
was something in the manner in which they wore their humble costumes
that distinctly marked their birth and breeding. The old man's features
were not changed; but it was difficult to say whether they expressed
pleasure, pain, or indifference. Lenora seemed strong and resolute,
although she was about to quit the place of her birth and separate
herself, perhaps forever, from all she had loved from infancy,--from
those aged groves beneath whose shadows the dawn of love first broke
upon her heart,--from that remembered tree at whose feet the timid
avowal of Gustave's passion had fallen on her ear. But a sense of duty
possessed and ruled her heart. Reason in her was not overmastered by
sensibility; and, when she saw her father tottering at her side, all her
energy was rallied in the effort to sustain him.

They did not linger at the door, but, crossing the garden rapidly,
directed their steps toward the farm-house, which they entered to bid
its occupants farewell. Bess and her servant-maid were in the first
apartment below.

"Mother Bess," said Monsieur De Vlierbeck, calmly, "we have come to bid
you good-by."

Bess stared a moment anxiously at the travellers, and, lifting her apron
to her eyes, left the apartment; while the servant-maid leaned her head
against the window-frame and began to sob as if her heart would break.
In a short time Bess returned with her husband, whom she had found in
the barn.

"Alas! is it true, sir," said the farmer, in a stifled voice,--"is it
true that you are going to leave Grinselhof, and that, perhaps, we shall
never see you again?"

"Come, come, mother Bess," said the poor bankrupt, as he took and
pressed her hand; "don't weep on that account; you see we bear our lot
with resignation."

Bess raised her head, threw her eyes once more over the humble dress of
her old