And picking up her dainty skirt with one ungloved hand, on which two diamond rings shone like circlets of dew, she nodded, smiled, and went her way—­Innocent standing at the gate and watching her go with a kind of numbed patience as though she saw a figure in a dream vanishing slowly with the dawn of day.  In truth she could hardly grasp the full significance of what had happened—­she did not feel, even remotely, the slightest attraction towards this suddenly declared “mother” of hers—­she could hardly believe the story.  Yet she knew it must be true,—­no woman of title and position would thus acknowledge a stigma on her own life without any cause for the confession.  She stood at the gate still watching, though there was nothing now to watch, save the bending trees, and the flowering wild plants that fringed each side of the old by-road.  Priscilla’s voice calling her in a clear, yet lowered tone, startled her at last—­she slowly shut the gate and turned in answer.

“Yes, dear?  What is it?”

Priscilla trotted out from under the porch, full of eager curiosity.

“Has the lady gone?”

“Yes.”

“What did she want with ye, dearie?”

“Nothing very much!” and Innocent smiled—­a strange, wistful smile—­“Only just what you thought!—­she wished to buy something from Briar Farm—­and I told her it was not to be sold!”

CHAPTER XI

That night Innocent made an end of all her hesitation.  Resolutely she put away every thought that could deter her from the step she was now resolved to take.  Poor old Priscilla little imagined the underlying cause of the lingering tenderness with which the girl kissed her “good-night,” looking back with more than her usual sweetness as she went along the corridor to her own little room.  Once there, she locked and bolted the door fast, and then set to work gathering a few little things together and putting them in a large but light-weight satchel, such as she had often used to carry some of the choicest apples from the orchard when they were being gathered in.  Her first care was for her manuscript,—­the long-treasured scribble, kept so secretly and so often considered with hope and fear, and wonder and doubting—­then she took one or two of the more cherished volumes which had formerly been the property of the “Sieur Amadis” and packed them with it.  Choosing only the most necessary garments from her little store, she soon filled her extemporary travelling-bag, and then sat down to write a letter to Robin.  It was brief and explicit.

“Dear robin,”—­it ran—­“I have left this beloved home.  It is impossible for me to stay.  Dad left me some money in bank-notes in that sealed letter—­so I want for nothing.  Do not be anxious or unhappy—­but marry soon and forget me.  I know you will always be good to Priscilla—­tell her I am not ungrateful to her for all her care of me.  I love