glittering in the sunlight, but there it hung dead and sombre above the cabinet from which she had taken the dagger.  Yes! now it all came back to her—­all the wretchedness and all the sin.  But where was the dagger now?  She felt in her pocket; it was not there.  Could it have been her fancy—­all that about the dagger?  She looked in the cabinet; it was not there.  Alas! no; it could not have been her fancy, and she was guilty of that wickedness.  But where could the dagger be now?  Could it have fallen out of her pocket?  She heard steps ascending the stairs, and hurried on to her room, where, kneeling by the bed, and burying her face to shut out the hateful light, she tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning.

It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she had felt for the last month—­for many months—­ever since that June evening when he had last spoken to her in the gallery.  She looked back on her storms of passion, her jealousy and hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts of revenge on Anthony.  O how wicked she had been!  It was she who had been sinning; it was she who had driven him to do and say those things that had made her so angry.  And if he had wronged her, what had she been on the verge of doing to him?  She was too wicked ever to be pardoned.  She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that they might punish her; she would like to humble herself to the dust before every one—­before Miss Assher even.  Sir Christopher would send her away—­would never see her again, if he knew all; and she would be happier to be punished and frowned on, than to be treated tenderly while she had that guilty secret in her breast.  But then, if Sir Christopher were to know all, it would add to his sorrow, and make him more wretched than ever.  No! she could not confess it—­she should have to tell about Anthony.  But she could not stay at the Manor; she must go away; she could not bear Sir Christopher’s eye, could not bear the sight of all these things that reminded her of Anthony and of her sin.  Perhaps she should die soon:  she felt very feeble; there could not be much life in her.  She would go away and live humbly, and pray to God to pardon her, and let her die.

The poor child never thought of suicide.  No sooner was the storm of anger passed than the tenderness and timidity of her nature returned, and she could do nothing but love and mourn.  Her inexperience prevented her from imagining the consequences of her disappearance from the Manor; she foresaw none of the terrible details of alarm and distress and search that must ensue.  ‘They will think I am dead,’ she said to herself, ’and by-and-by they will forget me, and Maynard will get happy again, and love some one else.’

She was roused from her absorption by a knock at the door.  Mrs. Bellamy was there.  She had come by Mr. Gilfil’s request to see how Miss Sarti was, and to bring her some food and wine.