Mr. Fairman was the last person whom I saw that night.  He remained with me until I retired to rest.  He was the first person whom I saw on the following morning.  I do not believe that he did not rely upon the word which I had pledged to him.  I did not suppose that he suspected my resolution, but I an convinced that he was most restless and unhappy, from the moment that I revealed my passion to him, until that which saw me safely deposited at the foot of the hill, on my way to the village.  So long as I remained in his house, he could only see danger for his daughter; and with my disappearance he counted upon her recovery and peace.

The incumbent was himself my companion from the parsonage.  The servant had already carried my trunk to the inn.  At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Fairman stopped and extended his hand.

“Fare-you-well, Stukely,” said he, with emotion.  “Once more, I am obliged to you.  I will never forget your conduct; you shall hear from me.”

Since the conversation of the preceding day, the incumbent had not mentioned the name of his daughter.  I had not spoken of her.  I felt it impossible to part without a word.

“What did Doctor Mayhew say?” I asked.

“She is a little better, and will be soon quite well, we trust.”

“That is good news.  Is she composed?”

“Yes—­she is better.”

“One question more, sir.  Does she know of my departure?”

“She does not—­but she will, of course.”

“Do not speak unkindly of me to her, sir.  I should be sorry if she thought ill”—­

“She will respect you, Stukely, for the part which you have acted.  She must do so.  You will respect yourself.”

I had nothing more to say, I returned his warm pressure, and bade him farewell.

“God bless you, lad, and prosper you!  We may meet again in a happier season; but if we do not, receive a father’s thanks and gratitude.  You have behaved nobly.  I feel it—­believe me.”

Manly and generous tears rushed to the eyes of my venerable friend, and he could not speak.  Once more he grasped my hand fervently, and in the saddest silence that I have ever known we separated.

There was gloom around my heart, which the bright sun in heaven, that gladdened all the land, could not penetrate or disperse; but it gave way before a touch of true affection, which came to me as a last memorial of the beloved scene on which I lingered.

I had hardly parted from the minister, before I perceived walking before me, at the distance of a few yards, the youngest of the lads who had been my pupils.  At the request of the minister, I had neither taken leave of them nor informed any one of my departure.  The lad whom I now saw was a fine spirited boy, who had strongly attached himself to me, and shown great aptitude, as well as deep desire, for knowledge.  He knew very little when I came to him, but great pains had enabled him to advance rapidly.  The