As he sat on the bed wondering, with vague uneasiness, what could have kept his daughter out so late, the old man saw a crumpled paper, folded somewhat in the form of a letter, lying on the floor at his feet, where some reckless hand had tossed it. When this paper met the poor father's eye, he arose from the bed, with painful weariness, and took it to the light. Here he smoothed the heartless missive with his hands, and wandered about a while in search of his iron-bound spectacles, that shook in his hand as he put them on:
Father—Don't fret about me; but I am going away for a while. This old place has tired me out, and there is no use in starving oneself in it any longer. The wages you get is not enough for one, to say nothing of a girl that has wants like other folks, and is likely to keep on wanting if she stays with you against her will. I might feel worse about leaving you so if I had ever been of much use or comfort to you; but I know just as well as you do, that I haven't done my share, and nothing like it. I know, too, that if I stayed, it would be worse instead of better; for I couldn't stand trying to be good just now—no, not to save my life!
"You won't miss me, anyhow; for when I'm gone, the people you work for will ask you to take a meal now and then; besides, you were always handy about the house, and know how to cook for yourself.
"I would have come in to say good-by, but was afraid you might wake up and try to keep me from going. Now don't put yourself out, or let the neighbors fill your head with stories about me. There's nothing to tell, only that I have taken an idea to get a place and better myself, which I will before you see me again. If I do, never fear that I will not send you some money.
Your daughter,
Judith.
The old man read this rude scrawl twice over—the first time shaking like a leaf, the last time with tears—every one a drop of pain—trembling in his eyes and blinding them.
"Gone!" he said, wiping his eyes with the soiled linen of his sleeve. "My lass gone away, no one knows where, and nothing but this left behind to remember her by! Poor thing!—poor young thing! It was lonesome here, and maybe I was hard on her in the way of work—wanted too much cooking done! But I didn't mean to be extravagant—didn't mean to drive her away from home, poor motherless thing! It's all my fault! it's all my fault! Oh! if she would only come back, and give me a chance to tell her so!"
The poor old man went to his work that day, looking worn out, and so downcast that the neighbors turned pitying glances at him as he passed down the hill, for he never had stooped so much or appeared so forlorn to them before. One or two stopped to speak with him. He said nothing of his daughter, but answered their greetings with downcast eyes and humble thanks, not once mentioning his trouble, or giving a sign of the gnawing anguish that racked his bosom and sapped his strength. She had left him, and in that lay desolation too dreary for complaint.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE WIFE'S VISIT.
I MUST see him. I will see him! Oh, Mrs. Mason, if you only knew how important it is!"
The good housekeeper, who sat in her comfortable parlor at "The Rest," was surprised and troubled by the sudden appearance of her pretty favorite from the gardener's cottage. She was hard to move, but could not altogether steel herself against the pathetic pleading of that pale young creature, who had come up from her home through the lonely dusk, to ask a single word with the young heir.