“I took more care of those leaves of writing, after you had thrown them aside, than of anything else I had,” said Clara.  “I always thought the time would come, when you would return again to the occupation which it was once your greatest pleasure to pursue, and my greatest pleasure to watch.  And surely that time has arrived.  I am certain, Basil, your book will help you to wait patiently for happier times, as nothing else can.  This place must seem very strange and lonely; but the sight of those pages, and the sight of me sometimes (when I can come), may make it look almost like home to you!  The room is not—­not very—­”

She stopped suddenly.  I saw her lip tremble, and her eyes grow dim again, as she looked round her.  When I tried to speak all the gratitude I felt, she turned away quickly, and began to busy herself in re-arranging the wretched furniture; in setting in order the glaring ornaments on the chimney-piece; in hiding the holes in the ragged window-curtains; in changing, as far as she could, all the tawdry discomfort of my one miserable little room.  She was still absorbed in this occupation, when the church-clocks of the neighbourhood struck the hour—­the hour that warned her to stay no longer.

“I must go,” she said; “it is later than I thought.  Don’t be afraid about my getting home:  old Martha came here with me, and is waiting downstairs to go back (you know we can trust her).  Write to me as often as you can; I shall hear about you every day, from Ralph; but I should like a letter sometimes, as well.  Be as hopeful and as patient yourself, dear, under misfortune, as you wish me to be; and I shall despair of nothing.  Don’t tell Ralph I have been here—­he might be angry.  I will come again, the first opportunity.  Good-bye, Basil!  Let us try and part happily, in the hope of better days.  Good-bye, dear—­good-bye, only for the present!”

Her self-possession nearly failed her, as she kissed me, and then turned to the door.  She just signed to me not to follow her down-stairs, and, without looking round again, hurried from the room.

It was well for the preservation of our secret, that she had so resolutely refrained from delaying her departure.  She had been gone but for a few minutes—­the lovely and consoling influence of her presence was still fresh in my heart—­I was still looking sadly over the once precious pages of manuscript which she had restored to me—­when Ralph returned from North Villa.  I heard him leaping, rather than running, up the ricketty wooden stairs.  He burst into my room more impetuously than ever.

“All right!” he said, jumping back to his former place on the bed.  “We can buy Mr. Shopkeeper for anything we like—­for nothing at all, if we choose to be stingy.  His innocent daughter has made the best of all confessions, just at the right time.  Basil, my boy, she has left her father’s house!”

“What do you mean?”

“She has eloped to the hospital!”