On an occasion when she had first irritated and then surprised him, Randal Linley had said to Mrs. Presty, “You have got a heart, after all!” Her reply to her daughter showed that view of her character to be the right one.  “Say no more, my dear,” she answered “I was hasty; I was wrong.”

The words had barely fallen from her lips, before Herbert returned.  He was followed by Sydney Westerfield.

The governess stopped in the middle of the room.  Her head sank on her breast; her quick convulsive breathing was the only sound that broke the silence.  Mrs. Linley advanced to the place in which Sydney stood.  There was something divine in her beauty as she looked at the shrinking girl, and held out her hand.

Sydney fell on her knees.  In silence she lifted that generous hand to her lips.  In silence, Mrs. Linley raised her—­took the writing which testified to her character from the table—­and presented it.  Linley looked at his wife, looked at the governess.  He waited—­and still neither the one nor the other uttered a word.  It was more than he could endure.  He addressed himself to Sydney first.

“Try to thank Mrs. Linley,” he said.

She answered faintly:  “I can’t speak!”

He appealed to his wife next.  “Say a last kind word to her,” he pleaded.

She made an effort, a vain effort to obey him.  A gesture of despair answered for her as Sydney had answered:  “I can’t speak!”

True, nobly true, to the Christian virtue that repents, to the Christian virtue that forgives, those three persons stood together on the brink of separation, and forced their frail humanity to suffer and submit.

In mercy to the woman, Linley summoned the courage to part them.  He turned to his wife first.

“I may say, Catherine, that she has your good wishes for happier days to come?”

Mrs. Linley pressed his hand.

He approached Sydney, and gave his wife’s message.  It was in his heart to add something equally kind on his own part.  He could only say what we have all said—­how sincerely, how sorrowfully, we all know—­the common word, “Good-by!”—­the common wish, “God bless you!”

At that last moment the child ran into the room, in search of her mother.

There was a low murmur of horror at the sight of her.  That innocent heart, they had all hoped, might have been spared the misery of the parting scene!

She saw that Sydney had her hat and cloak on.  “You’re dressed to go out,” she said.  Sydney turned away to hide her face.  It was too late; Kitty had seen the tears.  “Oh, my darling, you’re not going away!” She looked at her father and mother.  “Is she going away?” They were afraid to answer her.  With all her little strength, she clasped her beloved friend and play-fellow round the waist.  “My own dear, you’re not going to leave me!” The dumb misery in Sydney’s face struck Linley with horror.  He placed Kitty in her mother’s arms.  The child’s piteous cry, “Oh, don’t let her go! don’t let her go!” followed the governess as she suffered her martyrdom, and went out.  Linley’s heart ached; he watched her until she was lost to view.  “Gone!” he murmured to himself—­“gone forever!”