I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach home.  The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had reappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death; indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it.  My guardian had gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner.  Being quite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don’t think I behaved so very, very ill.

It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the loss of my darling yet.  Three or four hours were not a long time after years.  But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking some sort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the evening only to look up at her windows.

It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me, and it does not seem quite so even now.  I took Charley into my confidence, and we went out at dusk.  It was dark when we came to the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the yellow blinds.  We walked past cautiously three or four times, looking up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came out of his office while we were there and turned his head to look up too before going home.  The sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind.  I thought of the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.

It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I might safely steal upstairs.  I left Charley below and went up with a light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the way.  I listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear the murmur of their young voices.  I put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit.

And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knew anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for those moments.  I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.

My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark window.  When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat, but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.

“Little woman,” said he, “You have been crying.”

“Why, yes, guardian,” said I, “I am afraid I have been, a little.  Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.”

I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.