The next morning found Captain Bennydeck still keeping his rooms at Sydenham.  The state of his mind presented a complete contrast to the state of Catherine’s mind.  So far from sharing her aversion to the personal associations which were connected with the hotel, he found his one consolation in visiting the scenes which reminded him of the beloved woman whom he had lost.  The reason for this was not far to seek.  His was the largest nature, and his had been the most devoted love.

As usual, his letters were forwarded to him from his place of residence in London.  Those addressed in handwritings that he knew were the first that he read.  The others he took out with him to that sequestered part of the garden in which he had passed the happiest hours of his life by Catherine’s side.

He had been thinking of her all the morning; he was thinking of her now.

His better judgment protested; his accusing conscience warned him that he was committing, not only an act of folly but (with his religious convictions) an act of sin—­and still she held her place in his thoughts.  The manager had told him of her sudden departure from the hotel, and had declared with perfect truth that the place of her destination had not been communicated to him.  Asked if she had left no directions relating to her correspondence, he had replied that his instructions were to forward all letters to her lawyer.  On the point of inquiring next for the name and address, Bennydeck’s sense of duty and sense of shame (roused at last) filled him with a timely contempt for himself.  In feeling tempted to write to Catherine—­in encouraging fond thoughts of her among scenes which kept her in his memory—­he had been false to the very principles to which he had appealed at their farewell interview.  She had set him the right example, the example which he was determined to follow, in leaving the place.  Before he could falter in his resolution, he gave notice of his departure.  The one hope for him now was to find a refuge from himself in acts of mercy.  Consolation was perhaps waiting for him in his Home.

His unopened correspondence offered a harmless occupation to his thoughts, in the meanwhile.  One after another he read the letters, with an attention constantly wandering and constantly recalled, until he opened the last of them that remained.  In a moment more his interest was absorbed.  The first sentences in the letter told him that the deserted creature whom he had met in the garden—­the stranger to whom he had offered help and consolation in the present and in the future—­was no other than the lost girl of whom he had been so long in search; the daughter of Roderick Westerfield, once his dearest and oldest friend.

In the pages that followed, the writer confided to him her sad story; leaving it to her father’s friend to decide whether she was worthy of the sympathy which he had offered to her, when he thought she was a stranger.