He seemed so thoroughly happy amongst them, and displayed such a perfect sympathy with them in all things, that Gilbert Fenton was taken utterly by surprise by his abrupt departure, which happened one day without a word of warning.  He had dined at the cottage on the previous evening, and had been in his wildest, most reckless spirits—­that mood to which he was subject at rare intervals, and in which he exercised a potent fascination over his companions.  He had beguiled the little party at the cottage into complete forgetfulness of the hour by his unwonted eloquence upon subjects of a deeper, higher kind than it was his habit to speak about; and then at the last moment, when the clock on the mantelpiece had struck twelve, he had suddenly seated himself at the piano, and sung them Moore’s “Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,” in tones that went straight to the hearts of the listeners.  He had one of those rare sympathetic voices which move people to tears unawares, and before the song was ended Marian was fairly overcome, and had made a hasty escape from the room ashamed of her emotion.

Late as it was, Gilbert accompanied his friend for a mile of his homeward route.  He had secured a latch-key during his last visit to Lidford House, and could let himself in quietly of a night without entrenching upon the regular habits of Mrs. Lister’s household.

Once clear of the cottage, John Saltram’s gaiety vanished all in a moment, and gave place to a moody silence which Gilbert was powerless to dissipate.

“Is there anything amiss, Jack?” he asked.  “I know high spirits are not always a sign of inward contentment with you.  Is there anything wrong to-night?”

“No.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure.  I may be a little knocked up perhaps; that’s all.”

No hint of his intended departure fell from him when they shook hands and wished each other good-night; but early next morning a brief note was delivered to Mr. Fenton at his sister’s house to the following effect:—­

“My dear Gilbert,—­I find myself obliged to leave this place for London at once, and have not time to thank anyone for the kindness I have received during my stay.  Will you do the best to repair this omission on my part, and offer my warmest expressions of gratitude to Captain Sedgewick and Miss Nowell for their goodness to me?  Pray apologise for me also to Mr. and Mrs. Lister for my inability to make my adieux in a more formal manner than this, a shortcoming which I hope to atone for on some future visit.  Tell Lister I shall be very pleased to see him if he will look me up at the Pnyx when he is next in town.

    “Ever yours,—­John Saltram.”

This was all.  There was no explanation of the reason for this hurried journey,—­a strange omission between men who were on terms of such perfect confidence as obtained with these two.  Gilbert Fenton was not a little disturbed by this unlooked-for event, fearing that some kind of evil had befallen his friend.