the sale, in the Athenaeum, and other similar papers.  To him Mr. Corbet wrote, saying that he should be unable to be present when the books were sold, but that he wished to be allowed to buy in, at any price decided upon, a certain rare folio edition of Virgil, bound in parchment, and with notes in Italian.  The book was fully described.  Though no Latin scholar, Ellinor knew the book well—­remembered its look from old times, and could instantly have laid her hand upon it.  The auctioneer had sent the request onto his employer, Mr. Brown.  That gentleman applied to Ellinor for her consent.  She saw that the fact of the intended sale must be all that Mr. Corbet was aware of, and that he could not know to whom the books belonged.  She chose out the book, and wrapped and tied it up with trembling hands. He might be the person to untie the knot.  It was strangely familiar to her love, after so many years, to be brought into thus much contact with him.  She wrote a short note to Mr. Brown, in which she requested him to say, as though from himself; and without any mention of her name, that he, as executor, requested Mr. Corbet’s acceptance of the Virgil, as a remembrance of his former friend and tutor.  Then she rang the bell, and gave the letter and parcel to the servant.

Again alone, and Mr. Corbet’s open letter on the table.  She took it up and looked at it till the letters dazzled crimson on the white paper.  Her life rolled backwards, and she was a girl again.  At last she roused herself; but instead of destroying the note—­it was long years since all her love-letters from him had been returned to the writer—­she unlocked her little writing-case again, and placed this letter carefully down at the bottom, among the dead rose-leaves which embalmed the note from her father, found after his death under his pillow, the little golden curl of her sister’s, the half-finished sewing of her mother.

The shabby writing-case itself was given her by her father long ago, and had since been taken with her everywhere.  To be sure, her changes of place had been but few; but if she had gone to Nova Zembla, the sight of that little leather box on awaking from her first sleep, would have given her a sense of home.  She locked the case up again, and felt all the richer for that morning.

A day or two afterwards she left Hamley.  Before she went she compelled herself to go round the gardens and grounds of Ford Bank.  She had made Mrs. Osbaldistone understand that it would be painful for her to re-enter the house; but Mr. Osbaldistone accompanied her in her walk.

“You see how literally we have obeyed the clause in the lease which ties us out from any alterations,” said he, smiling.  “We are living in a tangled thicket of wood.  I must confess that I should have liked to cut down a good deal; but we do not do even the requisite thinnings without making the proper application for leave to Mr. Johnson.  In fact, your old friend Dixon is jealous of every pea-stick the gardener cuts.  I never met with so faithful a fellow.  A good enough servant, too, in his way; but somewhat too old-fashioned for my wife and daughters, who complain of his being surly now and then.”