“Dear Miss Haye, not yet.  Never mind now —­ we’ll talk about it by and by,” said Mrs. Nettley hurriedly and somewhat anxiously.  She was a little afraid of Elizabeth.

“How could you get home from this place?”

“O by and by —­ there’ll be ways —­ when the time comes.”

“The time must come, Mrs. Nettley.  You are very good —­ I’m very much obliged to you for coming and staying with me, —­ but in conscience I cannot let you stay any longer.  It don’t make any difference, a little sooner or later.”

“Later is better, Miss Elizabeth.”

“No —­ I shall feel more comfortable to think you are at home, than to think I am keeping you here.  I would rather you should make your arrangements and choose what day you will go; and I will find some way for you to go.”

“I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Nettley most unaffectedly.  “I am sure Mr. Landholm would a great deal rather I should stay.”

It was the last word Elizabeth could stand.  Her lip trembled, as she crossed the passage to her own room and bolted the door; and then she threw herself on her knees by the bedside and hid the quivering face in her hands.

Why should it, that kind care of his, pierce her like thorns and arrows? why give her that when he could give her no more?  “But it will all be over,” she thought to herself, —­ “this struggle like all other struggles will come to an end; meanwhile I have it to bear and my work to do.  Perhaps I shall get over this feeling in time —­ time wears out so much. —­ But I should despise myself if I did.  No, when I have taken up a liking on so good and solid grounds, I hope I am of good enough stuff to keep it to the end of my days.”

Then came over her the feeling of forlornness, of loneliness, well and thoroughly realized; with the single gleam of better things that sprung from the promise her heart had embraced that day.  True and strong it was, and her soul clung to it.  But yet its real brightness, to her apprehension, shone upon a “land that is very far off;” and left all the way thereunto with but a twilight earnest of good things to come; and Elizabeth did not like looking forward; she wanted some sweetness in hand.  Yet she clung to that, her one stand-by.  She had a vague notion that its gleam might lead to more brightness even this side of heaven; that there might be a sort of comfort growing out of doing one’s duty, and the favour of him whose service duty is.  Winthrop Landholm was always bright, —­ and what else had he to make him so?  She would try what virtue there might be in it; she would essay those paths of wisdom which are said to be ‘pleasantness;’ but again came the longing for help; she felt that she knew so little.  Again the word ‘ask’ —­ came back to her; and at last, half comforted, wholly wearied, she rose from her long meditation by the bed-side and went towards the window.