"Can you tell me about the trains? What is the earliest?"
"There's one at six, miss; but you wouldn't start so early as that, would you?"
"The sooner the better, I think. I will dress now, and call you presently to pack my bag. The boxes can be sent afterwards."
"Yes, miss."
"And, Parker, if you come with me, you must remember that you are quitting Mrs. Vane's service. She will never take you back if you leave her now."
"I wouldn't come back—not if she paid me double!" cried Parker, honest tears starting to her beady eyes. "I don't care what she does; but I'll never work for her again—not after what I have heard and seen!"
"You must not speak either to me or any one else about what you have heard or seen," said Enid gravely, "particularly in the house to which we are going. Will you remember that?"
"Oh, yes, miss—I'll not say a single word! And you have settled where to go, miss, if I may make so bold as to ask?"
"I am going to my aunt—Miss Vane," said Enid briefly; and Parker retired, not daring to ask any more questions, being a little overawed by the growth of some new quality in the girl's nature—some novel development of strength and character which imposed silence on her companion in this self-enforced exile.
The dawn was breaking when Enid began to make her preparations for departure. The faint yellow light of day stole into the room when she drew back the window-curtains and stood looking—perhaps for the last time, she thought—upon the flower-gardens and the lawn, upon the sheet of water in the distance, the beech woods, and the distant hills—spots that she had known from childhood, and which were dearer to her than any new scenes could ever be. And yet she did not falter in her purpose. Even to herself she did not seem the same gentle submissive maiden that she had hitherto been considered. Some new strength had passed into her veins; she was eager to act as became the woman who was one day to be the wife of Maurice Evandale.