There was no train till the mail at night, and there would be two hours to wait in London; but Lenore would listen to no entreaties to wait till morning, and as they saw that she had plenty of health and strength, they did not press her, though the Superior would send a nurse with her, who, if not needed at Sirenwood, might work in Water Lane.  It was thought best not to distract Lady Susan, and Lenore was relieved not to have her vehement regret and fussy cares about her; but there were still two hours to be spent before starting, and in these Dr. Easterby was the kindest of comforters.

Had she erred in her concealment?  He thought she had, though with much excuse.  A Retreat was not like a sacrament, a necessity of a Christian’s life; and no merely possible spiritual advantage ought to be weighed against filial obedience.  It was a moment of contrition, and of outpouring for the burthened heart, as Lenore was able to speak of her long trial, and all the evil it had caused in hardening and sealing up her better nature.  She even told of her unsanctioned but unforbidden engagement, and of its termination; yearning to be told that she had been hasty and hard, and to be bidden to revoke her rejection.

She found that Dr. Easterby would not judge for her, or give her decided direction.  He showed her, indeed, that she had given way to pride and temper, and had been unjust in allowing no explanation; but he would not tell her to unsay her decision, nor say that it might not be right, even though the manner had been wrong.  While the past was repented, and had its pardon, for the future he would only bid her wait, and pray for guidance and aid through her trial.

“My child,” he said, “chastening is the very token of pardon, and therein may you find peace, and see the right course.”

“And you will pray for me—­that however it may be, He may forgive me?”

“Indeed, I will.  We all will pray for you as one in sorrow and anxiety.  And remember this:  There is a promise that a great mountain shall become a plain; and so it does, but to those who bravely try to climb it in strength not their own, not to those who try to go round or burrow through.”

“I see,” was all she answered, in the meek submissive tone of a strong nature, bent but not daring to break down.  She could not shed tears, deeply as she felt; she must save all her strength and bear that gnawing misery which Herbert Bowater’s mention of J. C.’s brothers had inflicted upon her—­bear it in utter uncertainty through the night’s journey, until the train stopped at Wil’sbro’ at eleven o’clock, and her father, to whom she had telegraphed, met her, holding out his arms, and absolutely crying over her for joy.

“My dear, my dear, I knew you would come; I could trust to my little Lena.  It was all some confounded mistake.”

“It was my fault.  How is she?”

“Does nothing but ask for you.  Very low—­nasty fever at night.  What’s that woman?  M’Vie sent a nurse, who is awfully jealous; can’t have her in to Camilla:  but there’s plenty to do; Anais is laid up—­coachman too, and Joe—­half the other servants gone off.  I told Victor I would pay anything to him if he would stay.”