She started to her feet.  Her mother gazed at her in fear,—­believing it the beginning of delirium.

‘Emily, my dear child,’ she pleaded, laying her hand on the girl’s arm, ‘won’t you come upstairs,—­to please me, dear?’

‘Mother, if you will go, I promise to lie here quietly till you return.’

’But it is impossible to leave you alone in the house.  Look, now, it is nine o’clock; in half an hour, an hour at most, your father will be back.  Why, you know how often he stays late when he gets talking.’

Emily was silent for a few minutes.  Then she said—­

‘Will you ask Mrs. Hopkins to send her servant?’

‘But think—­the trouble it will be giving.’

’Will you do it?  I wish it.  Will you go and ask her I will give the girl money.’

‘If you are so determined, of course I will ask her.  But I’m sure—­’

At length she left the room, to go out of the house by the back-door and call at the neighbours’.  Scarcely was she away, when Emily darted upstairs, and in an instant was down again, with her hat and a cloak; another moment, and she was out in the road.  She did not forget the terror her mother would suffer, on finding her gone; but endurance had reached its limit.  It was growing dark.  After one look in the direction of Dunfield, she took the opposite way, and ran towards the Heath, ran till her breath failed and she had to drop into a quick walk.  Once more she was going to the Upper Heath, and to the house which was the source of all her misery.  When she reached the quarry it was quite dark at her approach she saw the shape of a man move away into the shadow of the quarried rock, and an unreasoning fear spurred her past the spot.  Five minutes more and she was at Dagworthy’s gate.  She rang the door-bell.

The servant told her that Mr. Dagworthy was at home; she declined to give her name, but said she must see him at once.  Speedily she was led into a room, where her enemy sat alone.

He looked at her wonderingly, then with a deep flush—­for now he surely had gained his end,—­he advanced towards her without speaking.

‘Where is my father?’ she asked; the voice which disabused him did not seem Emily’s.

‘Isn’t he at home?’

‘He has not come home.  What have you done?’

‘Not come home?’

‘Then he is free?  He is safe—­my father?  You have spared him?’

Dagworthy inwardly cursed himself for shortsightedness.  Were he but able to answer ‘Yes,’ would she not yield him anything?  Why had he not made trial of this policy?  Or was it now too late?  But Hoed had not returned home.  The man had gone forth from him in despair.  As he gazed at the girl, a suspicion, all but a fear, touched him.  Why should Hood remain away from his house?

She was repeating her questions imploringly.

‘He is free, as far as I am concerned, Emily.’

‘You have forgiven him?  Oh, you have had that mercy upon us?’