had turned away to her book-case, and had taken from it the album that contained Walter Hartright’s drawings. She hesitated for a moment, holding the little volume fondly in her hands—then lifted it to her lips and kissed it.
“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, not angrily, not reprovingly—with nothing but sorrow in my voice, and nothing but sorrow in my heart.
“It is the last time, Marian,” she pleaded. “I am bidding it good-bye for ever.”
She laid the book on the table and drew out the comb that
them until they were both within sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly, and declined. She said they were sure to meet some of the farm- labourers as soon as they got to the moor.
“Try to forgive me,” I said, when Anne Catherick took her friend’s arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of