When I arrived at St. Stephen’s Green, expecting to find my godmother sleeping or at least resting, I found her, to my amazement, up and bustling about, and her maid packing our trunks.

“Why, how long you have been, Bawn!” she said; “and I wanted you, child.  We are going home this evening.  There will be just time to catch the six o’clock express.  Louise has packed for you, and we can dine in the train.”

“But why, why?” I asked, cold dismay seizing on my heart.

“I will tell you presently.  Poor Bawn—­what a shame that your gaieties should be interrupted!  I would leave you behind me, if I could.  But perhaps we shall return.”

She drew me to her and kissed me.  Of course she could say no more, since Louise was in the room; but glancing at the dressing-table, which was now stripped of its pretty things in silver and tortoise-shell, a letter addressed in my grandmother’s handwriting caught my eye.  It must have come since I went out; and there must be something in it to explain our sudden departure.

“There is nothing wrong at Aghadoe, is there?” I asked, in sharp fear.

“I should have told you, Bawn, if there was.  They are quite well.”

I went out of the room into my own little room, where my trunks stood in the middle, locked and labelled.  The letter must have come immediately after I had gone out.  What could it contain that necessitated this hurried flight?  I looked around the little room where I had been happy for a fortnight, and my eyes filled with tears.  I had a feeling that I should not come back to it.

While I stood there, miserably, I heard a knock at the hall door, without attaching any significance to it.  There was nothing left for me to do—­everything had been done for me; so I sat down in my hat and jacket as I was, and gave myself up to a bitter regret.  At the moment it seemed the hardest and cruellest thing in the world that I should be taken away from the place which held Anthony Cardew—­where I might meet him at any moment—­and, so far as I could see, since my grandparents were well, without adequate cause.

I had a sudden feeling as though they, as though my godmother, must know that I loved Anthony Cardew and that he loved me in return.  Of course, it was impossible; but it seemed to be a foretaste of the opposition I should have to face; and, although I could face it for his sake, yet it struck me coldly that I should ever be in opposition to the will of those who loved me so tenderly.

There was a tap at the door, and the little maid of the house came in, with a sad face, to say that the cab was come.

“And, Miss Bawn,” she added, “I found this in the letter-box for you, when I went to call the cab.”

I took the letter from her hand and my heart gave a great leap.  I had never seen my beloved’s handwriting, but I had not a doubt that it was his.  Ah, so he had not left me in suspense!  He had written to me to tell me, surely, that he understood.  He was not one to let a misunderstanding come between us.  How fortunate it was that I had told him where we were!  He must have left the letter himself.  He had been so near me, and I had not known.