of a friend, he
is made independent.'

'For his own sake, I am glad to hear that. But how could it concern
_you_, dear?'

She struggled to command herself.

'It was at my invitation that he wrote, father.'

Martin's face expressed grave concern.

'Sidwell! Is this right?'

She was very pale, and kept her eyes unmovingly directed just aside
from her father.

'What can it mean?' Mr. Warricombe pursued, with sad remonstrance.
'Will you not take me into your confidence, Sidwell?'

'I can't speak of it,' she replied, with sudden determination. 'Least
of all with you, father.'

'Least of all?--I thought we were very near to each other.'

'For that very reason, I can't speak to you of this. I must be left
free! I am going away with Sylvia, for a year, and for so long I _must_
be absolutely independent. Father, I entreat you not to'----

A sob checked her. She turned away, and fought against the hysterical
tendency; but it was too strong to be controlled. Her father
approached, beseeching her to be more like herself. He held her in his
arms, until tears had their free course, and a measure of calmness
returned.

'I can't speak to you about it,' she repeated, her face hidden from
him. 'I must write you a long letter, when I have gone. You shall know
everything in that way.'

'But, my dearest, I can't let you leave us under these circumstances.
This is a terrible trial to me. You cannot possibly go until we
understand each other!'

'Then I will write to you here--to-day or to-morrow.'

With this promise Martin was obliged to be contented, Sidwell left him,
and was not seen, except by Sylvia, during the whole day.

Nor did she appear at breakfast on the morning that followed. But when
this meal was over, Sylvia received a message, summoning her to the
retreat on the top of the house. Here Sidwell sat in the light and
warmth, a glass door wide open to the west, the rays of a brilliant sun
softened by curtains which fluttered lightly in the breeze from the sea.

'Will you read this?' she said, holding out a sheet of notepaper on
which were a few lines in her own handwriting.

It was a letter, beginning--'I cannot.'

Sylvia perused it carefully, and stood in thought.

'After all?' were the words with which she broke silence. They were
neither reproachful nor regretful, but expressed grave interest.

'In the night,' said Sidwell, 'I wrote to father, but I shall not give
him the letter. Before it was finishe